Worlds of IF (August 1954) (Modified)

RECONNAISSANCE SHIP — This specially designed "flying laboratory" is
equipped for research and living so that scientists, away from the home
base for long periods of time, can make prolonged and intimate inspection
of the Moon's surface. The ship's equipment includes radar, solar reflectors,
radio, astrodome top, two huge fuel tanks, electronic instruments, computers,
chemical laboratory and other exploration necessities, as well as health
and comfort facilities. Now turn to inside back cover.

WORLDS of SCIENCE FICTION

AUGUST 1954

All Stories New and Complete

Editor: JAMES L. QUINN
Assist. Editors: THOR L. KROGH, EVE P. WULFF
Art Editor: ED VALIGURSKY

Cover by Ken Fagg: The Old Spaceman's Tales

| NOVELETTES

| THE UNLEARNED by Raymond F. Jones
1 THE ACADEMY by Robert Sheckley
| BEING by Richard Matheson

| SHORT STORIES

| THE JOY OF LIVING by William F. Nolan

| EXHIBIT PIECE by Philip K. Dick

| CONTACT POINT by Poul Anderson and
| Theodore Cogswell

| FEATURES f

| A CHAT WITH THE EDITOR 2 |

| WHAT IS YOUR SCIENCE I.Q.? 75 |

| WORTH CITING 101 |

| TODAY AND ATOMICS by M. T. Kay 117 f

| LOOKING AHEAD 120 |

| COVER PICTORIAL: |

| Investigating the Moon's Resources |

IF is published monthly by Quinn Publishing Company, Inc. Volume 3, No. 6.
Copyright 1954 by Quinn Publishing Co., Inc. Office of publication, 8 Lord Street,
Buffalo, New York. Entered as Second Class Matter at Post Office, Buffalo, New
York. Subscription $3.50 for 12 issues in U.S. and Possessions; Canada $4 for 12
issues; elsewhere $4.50. Allow four weeks for change of address. All stories appear-
ing in this magazine are fiction; any similarity to actual persons is coincidental.
Not responsible for unsolicited artwork or manuscripts. 35c a copy. Printed in U.S.A.

EDITORIAL AND BUSINESS OFFICES, KINGSTON, NEW YORK

Next issue an sale July 1 0 th

4

45 I

76 |

35

63 |

102 |

A CHAT WITH
THE EDITOR

MOST OF the “chatting55 this issue
comes in the form of an interesting
letter received from Mrs. Alma
McCormick, of Richland, Wash-
ington, who takes slight issue with
The Golden Man , by Philip K.
Dick, which appeared in the April
issue. Mrs. McCormick enjoyed the
story but disagrees with the mutant
theme. We enjoyed her letter, and
think you will too.

Dear Mr. Quinn:

Your Chat With the Editor in
April IF is thoroughly enjoyable. . .
But I have another theme to sug-
gest: the theme that homo superior ,
the mutants, will be and must be
hunted out and destroyed by homo
sapiens when and if he ever occurs.

1 admit that “The Golden Man55 by
Dick doesn’t deal with homo su-
perior as much as it does with
“horrible tribes of mutant freaks55
who might justifiably be a source of
horror and terror. But the last para-

2

graph, page 17, takes the same
stand that was taken in the book
“Dragon Island55 (and countless
other stories) :

“Which race? Not the human
race. .' . If we introduce a mutant
to keep us going, it’ll be mutants,
not us, who’ll inherit the earth.
It’ll be mutants surviving for their
own sake. . . To survive, we’ve got
to cold-deck them right from the
start.”

Now, really!

I’m a teacher ... of exceptional
children. This semester they are
mentally retarded children, as far
below the abilities of normal chil-
dren as homo sapiens would be be-
low homo superior. They cannot
and never will be able to take care
of themselves, but we carefully
teach them all they can learn (very
simple reading, social graces,
grooming, use of household and
play equipment, counting and use
of coins). We don’t, and never ex-
pect the rest of the world to, com-
pete with them. They’re certainly
not being “cold-decked55 from the
start.

On the other hand, I have taught
superior children. Not superior to
the extent of homo superior, true.
I did have one “gifted class” how-
ever that had an average I.Q. of
128. . . If I remember correctly, the
highest 3 or 4 members rated be-
tween 140 I.Q. and 167 I.Q. — rat-
ings that occur in a very, very thin
“cream” on top of the general
population. The 167 I.Q. rating oc-
curs about 3 times in 10,000 chil-
dren if we can trust statistics. . .

And what were they like? And
how did the schools and the gen-
eral population treat them? Well,

A CHAT WITH THE EDITOR

they were a joy to teach and some-
times a bit difficult to handle. All
of them spoke two languages (Eng-
glish and Spanish) and had learned
to speak Spanish fluently and rea-
sonably correctly in six weeks. Many
also spoke from one to three more
languages. (They were children of
diplomats and industrialists and
had travelled extensively.) They
learned everything else as rapidly
as they learned languages, and the
few merely average children, who
learned at merely average rates, not
only enjoyed the pyrotechnics of
some of their discussions but
seemed to catch fire from them to
do better work of their own. For
example, have you ever seen the
trouble teachers of average high
school classes (or even college
classes) have when they try to get
students to “document” papers they
write or ideas they propound by
sufficient reading even when the
teachers give a bibliography already
prepared? These 8 to 9 year old
children would discuss a new item
of knowledge or a new idea, and
the next day a good many of them
would come to class with armloads
of books from the library with para-
graphs, chapters, or full-time treat-
ment of the subject. At first it was
only the brighter ones; later even
the few merely average were do-
ing the same thing.

Such children are not only a joy
(though I know some teachers
loathe working with “precocious
brats”) ; they seem to be a lift to
others. Except in one situation :
when you have one exceedingly
brilliant child in an average class
or school, you have a bored, con-
ceited, self-centered, isolated, re-

A CHAT WITH THE EDITOR

bellious, bothersome pest. One mu-
tant, one homo superior might be
like that.

But from my experience with the
superior child, and from the kudos
our world hands such men as Ein-
stein, Oppenheimer, etc., I think
we would merely be more im-
pressed and even happier with a
truly new race, a truly superior
race. They might not be highly im-
pressed with us, but even now we
have our intelligentsia who associate
mostly with each other, our aver-
age who associate with the average,
and the dull who are happy with
the dull . . . and even our way-
down-below-average like my little
ones who are happy as larks when
they are with each other. Brains
seek their own level. . .

Rather than Cro Magnon kill-
ing off all the Neanderthal, isn’t it
possible that their taking over was
a matter of natural selection plus
absorption? If mutants arrived, it
seems more likely (to me) that
homo sapiens would be absorbed
gradually (many a genius marries a
mere average spouse) ; if homo su-
perior bred true, his more resistant
body could probably stand the dis-
ease and injuries the world hands
out better and his children would
inherit the earth. If present man-
kind died out, I doubt that it would
be in gas chambers or crematori-
ums, and those of us who lived out
a full life-time (as the Neander-
thals perhaps did) would live it ad-
miring and accepting the leader-
ship of the superior race because
they’d make our lives richer and
fuller too.

Sincerely yours,
(Mrs.) Alma McCormick

3

The scientists of Rykeman III were conceded by all the galactic
members to be supreme in scientific achievement. Now the
Rykes were going to share their vast knowledge with the scien-
tists of Earth. T o any question they would supply an answer —
for a price. And Hockley, of all Earth’s scientists, was the stub-
born one who wanted to weigh the answers with the costs . . .

THE

UNLEARNED

By Raymond F. Jones

Illustrated by Ed Emsh

4

THE CHIEF Officer of Scien-
tific Services, Information and
Coordination was a somewhat mis-
leading and obscure title, and Dr.
Sherman Hockley who held it was
not the least of those whom the
title misled and sometimes ob-
scured.

He told himself he was not a
mere library administrator, al-
though he was proud of the infor-
mation files built up under his di-
rection. They contained the essence
of accumulated knowledge found
to date on Earth and the extra-
terrestrial planets so far contacted.
He didn’t feel justified in claiming
to be strictly a research supervisor,
either, in spite of duties as top level
administrator for all divisions of
the National Standardization and
Research Laboratories and their

subsidiaries in government, indus-
try, and education. During his term
of supervision the National Lab-
oratories had made a tremendous
growth, in contrast to a previous
decline.

Most of all, however, he dis-
claimed being a figurehead, to
which all the loose strings of a vast
and rambling organization could be
tied. But sometimes it was quite
difficult to know whether or not
that was his primary assignment
after all. His unrelenting efforts to
keep out of the category seemed to
be encountering more and more
determination to push him in that
direction.

Of course, this was merely the
way it looked in his more bitter
moments — such as the present.
Normally, he had a full awareness

of the paramount importance of
his position, and was determined to
administer it on a scale in keeping
with that importance. His decision
could affect the research in the
world’s major laboratories. Not
that he was a dictator by any
means, although there were times
when dictation was called for. As
when a dozen projects needed
money and the Congress allotted
enough for one or two. Somebody
had to make a choice —

His major difficulty was that ac-
tive researchers knew it was the
Congressional Science Committee
which was, ultimately responsible
for their bread and butter. And the
Senators regarded the scientists,
who did the actual work in the lab-
oratories, as the only ones who mat-
tered. Both groups tended to look
upon Hockley’s office as a sort of
fulcrum in their efforts to main-
tain balance with each other — or as
referee in their sparring for ade-
quate control over each other.

At that, however, things re-
searchwise were better than ever
before. More funds and facilities
were available. Positions in pure
research were more secure.

And then, once again, rumors
about Rykeman III had begun to
circulate wildly a few days ago.

Since Man’s achievement of ex-
tra-galactic flight, stories of Ryke-
man III had. tantalized the world
and made research scientists sick
with longing when they considered
the possible truth of what they
heard. The planet was rumored to
be a world of super-science, whose
people had an answer for every re-
search problem a man could con-
ceive. The very few Earthmen

who had been to Rykeman III con-
firmed the rumors. It was a para-
dise, according to their stories. And
among other peoples of the galaxies
the inhabitants of Rykeman III
were acknowledged supreme in
scientific achievement. None chal-
lenged them. None even ap-
proached them in abilities.

What made the situation so frus-
trating to Earthmen was the addi-
tional report that the Rykes were
quite altruistically sharing their
science with a considerable number
of other worlds on a fee basis.
Earth scientists became intoxicated
at the mere thought of studying at
the feet of the exalted Rykes.

Except Dr. Sherman Hockley.
From the first he had taken a dim
view of the Ryke reports. Consid-
ering the accomplishments of the
National Laboratories, he could see
no reason for his colleagues’ half-
shameful disowning of all their own
work in favor of a completely un-
known culture several hundred mil-
lion light years away. They were
bound to contact more advanced
cultures in their explorations — and
could be thankful they were as al-
truistic as the Rykes! — but it was
no reason to view themselves as
idiot children hoping to be taught
by the Rykes.

He had kept his opinions very
much to himself in the past, since
they were not popular with his asso-
ciates, who generally regarded his
attitudes as simply old-fashioned.
But now, for the first time, a Ryke
ship was honoring Earth with a
visit. There was almost hysterical
speculation over the possibility that
Earth would be offered tutelage by
the mighty Ryke scientists. Hockley

RAYMOND F. JONES

6

wouldn’t hhve said he was unalter-
ably opposed to the idea. He would
have described himself as extreme-
ly cautious. What he did oppose
wholeheartedly was the enthusiasm
that painted the Rykes with pure
and shining light, without a shad-
owy hue in the whole picture.

Since his arrival, the Ryke envoy
had been closeted with members of
the Congressional Science Commit-
tee. Not a word had leaked as to
his message. Shortly, however, the
scientists were to be let in on the
secret which might affect their ca-
reers for better or for worse during
the rest of their lives, and for many
generations to come. The meeting
was going to be —

Hockley jumped to his feet as
he glanced at the clock. He hurried
through the door to the office of
his secretary, Miss Cardston, who
looked meaningfully at him as he
passed.

‘Til bet there isn’t a Senator on
time,” he said.

In the corridor he almost col-
lided with Dr. Lester Showalter,
who was his Administrative Assist-
ant for Basic Research. “The Ryke
character showed up fifteen min-
utes ago,” said Showalter. “Every-
one’s waiting.”

“We’ve got six minutes yet,” said
Hockley. He walked rapidly beside
Showalter. “Is there any word on
what the envoy’s got that’s so im-
portant?”

“No. I’ve got the feeling it’s
something pretty big. Wheeler and
Johnson of Budget are there. Some-
body said it might have something
to do with the National Lab.”

“I don’t see the connection be-
tween that and a meeting with the

THE UNLEARNED

Ryke,” said Hockley.

Showalter stopped at the door
of the conference room. “Maybe
they want to sell us something. At
any rate, we’re about to find out.”
The conference table was sur-
rounded by Senators of the Com-
mittee. Layered behind them were
scientists representing the cream of
Hockley’s organization. Senator
Markham, the bulky, red-faced
Chairman greeted them. “Your
seats are reserved at the head of
the table,” he said.

“Sorry about the time,” Hockley
mumbled. “Clock must be slow.”
“Quite all right. We assembled
just a trifle early. I want you to
meet our visitor, Special Envoy
from Rykeman III, Liacan.”
Markham introduced them, and
the stick-thin envoy arose with an
extended hand. His frail, whistling
voice that was in keeping with his
bird-like character spoke in clear
tones. “I am happy to know you.
Dr. Hockley, Dr. Showalter.”

The two men sat down in good
view of the visitor’s profile. Hock-
ley had seen the Rykes before, but
had always been repelled by their
snobbish approach. Characteristi-
cally, the envoy bore roughly an-
thropomorphic features, including
a short feather covering on his
dorsal side. He was dressed in
bright clothing that left visible the
streak of feathering that descended
from the bright, plumed crown and
along the back of his neck. Gravity
and air pressure of Earth were
about normal forliim. For breath-
ing, however, he was required to
wear a small device in one narrow
nostril. This was connected to a
compact tank on his shoulder.

7

Markham called for order and
introduced the visitor. There was a
round of applause. Liacan bowed
with a short, stiff gesture and let his
small black eyes dart over the audi-
ence. With an adjustment of his
breathing piece he began speaking.

“It is recognized on Earth/’ he
said, “as it is elsewhere, that my
people of Rykeman III possess un-
disputed intellectual leadership in
the galaxies of the Council. Your
research is concerned with things
taugfit only in the kindergartens of
my world. Much that you hold to
be true is in error, and your most
profound discoveries are self-evi-
dent to the children of my people.”

Hockley felt a quick, painful con-
traction in the region of his dia-
phragm. So this was it!

“We are regarded with much
jealousy, envy, and even hatred by
some of our unlearned neighbors
in space,” said the Ryke. “But it
has never been our desire to be
selfish with our superior achieve-*
ments which make us the object
of these feelings. We have under-
taken a program of scientific lead-
ership in our interstellar neighbor-
hood. This began long before you
came into space and many worlds
have accepted the plan we offer.

“Obviously, it is impractical to
pour out all the knowledge and
basic science we have accumulated.
Another world would find it im-
possible to sort out that which was
applicable to it. What we do is act
as a consultation center upon which
others can call at will to obtain
data pertaining to any problem at
hand. Thus, they are not required
to sort through wholly inapplic-
able information to find what they

8

need.

“For example, if you desire to
improve your surface conveyances,
we will supply you with data for
building an optimum vehicle suit-
able for conditions on Earth and
which is virtually indestructible.
You will of course do your own
manufacturing, but even there we
can supply you with technology that
will make the process seem miracu-
lous by your present standards.

“Our services are offered for a
fee, payable in suitable items of
goods or raw materials. When you
contemplate the freedom from
monotonous and unending research
in fields already explored by us, I
am certain you will not consider
our fees exorbitant. Our desire is to
raise the cultural level of all peo-
ples to the maximum of which they
are capable. We know it is not pos-
sible or even desirable to bring
others to our own high levels, but
we do offer assistance to all cultures
in accord with their ability to re-
ceive. The basic principle is that
they shall ask — and whatever is
asked for, with intelligence suffi-
cient for its utilization, that shall be
granted.

“I am certain I may count on
your acceptance of the generous
offer of my people.”

The envoy sat down with a jig-
gling of his bright plume, and there
was absolute silence in the room.
Hockley pictured to himself the
dusty, cobweb laboratories of Earth
vacated by scientists who ran to the
phone to call the Rykes for answers
to every problem.

Senator Markham stood up and
glanced over the audience. “There
is the essence of the program which

RAYMOND F. JONES

has been submitted to us,” he said.
“There is a vast amount of detail
which is, of course, obvious to the
minds of our friends on Rykeman
III, but which must be the subject
of much deliberation on the part of
us comparatively simple minded
Earthmen.” He gave a self-con-
scious chuckle, which got no
response.

Hockley felt mentally stunned.
Here at last was the thing that had
been hoped for by most, anxiously
awaited by a few, and opposed by
almost no one.

“The major difficulty,55 said
Markham with slow dignity, “is the
price. It’s high, yes. In monetary
terms, approximately twelve and a
half billions per year. But certainly
no man in his right mind would
consider any reasonable figure too
high for what we can expect to re-
ceive from our friends of Rykeman
HL

“We of the Science Committee
do not believe, however, that we
could get a commitment for this
sum to be added to our normal bud-
get. Yet there is a rather obvious
solution. The sum required is very
close to that which is now expended
on the National Standardization
and Research Laboratories.55

Hockley felt a sudden chill at the
back of his neck.

“With the assistance of the
Rykes,55 said Markham, “we shall
have no further need of the Nation-
al Laboratories. We shall require
but a small staff to analyze our
problems and present them to the
Rykes and relay the answers for
proper assimilation. Acceptance of
the Ryke program provides its own
automatic financing l55

THE UNLEARNED

He glanced about with a tri-
umphant smile. Hockley felt as if
he were looking through a mist
upon something that happened a
long time ago. The National Lab!
Abandon the National Lab!

Around him there were small
nods of agreement from his col-
leagues. Some pursed their lips as
if doubtful — but not very much. He
waited for someone to rise to his
feet in a blast of protest. No one
did. For a moment Hockley’s own
hands tensed on the back of the
chair in front of him. Then he
slumped back to his seat. Now was
not the time.

They had to thrash it out among
themselves. He had to show them
the magnitude of this bribe. He had
to find an argument to beat down
the Congressmen’s irrational hopes
of paradise. He couldn’t plead for
the Lab on the grounds of senti-
ment— or that it was sometimes a
good idea to work out your own
problems. The Senators didn’t care
for the problems or concerns of the
scientists. It appeared that even the
scientists themselves had forgotten
to care. He had to slug both groups
with something very solid.

Markham was going on. “We are
convinced this is a bargain which
even the most obstinate of our Con-
gressional colleagues will be quick
to recognize. It would be folly to
compute with building blocks when
we can gain access to giant calcula-
tors. There should be no real diffi-
culty in getting funds transferred
from the National Laboratory.

“At this time we will adjourn.
Liacan leaves this evening. Our ac-
ceptance of this generous offer will
be conveyed to Rykeman III direct-

9

ly upon official sanction by the Con-
gress. I wish to ask this same group
to meet again for discussion of the
details incident to this transfer of
operations. Let us say at ten o’clock
in the morning, gentlemen.”

HOCKLEY said goodbye to the
envoy. Afterwards, he moved
through the circle of Senators to his
own group. In the corridor they
tightened about him and followed
along as if he had given an order
for them to follow him. He turned
and attempted a grin.

“Looks like a bull session is in
order, gents. Assembly in five min-
utes in my office.”

As he and Showalter opened the
door to Miss Cardston’s office and
strode in, the secretary looked up
with a start. “I thought you were
going to meet in the conference
room.”

“We’ve met,” said Hockley.
“This is the aftermeeting. Send out
for a couple of cases of beer.” He
glanced at the number surging
through the doorway and fished in
his billfold. “Better make it three.
This ought to cover it.”

With disapproval, Miss Cardston
picked up the bills and turned to
the phone. Almost simultaneously
there was a bellow of protest and an
enormous, ham-like hand gripped
her slender wrist. She glanced up
in momentary fright.

Dr. Forman K. Silvers was hold-
ing her wrist with one hand and
clapping Hockley on the back with
the other. “This is not an occasion
for beer, my boy!” he said in an
enormous voice. “Make that a case
of champagne, Miss Cardston.” He

10

released her and drew out his own
billfold.

“Get somebody to bring in a cou-
ple of dozen chairs,” Hockley said.

In his own office he walked to the
window behind his desk and stood
facing it. The afternoon haze was
coming up out of the ocean. Faintly
visible were the great buildings of
the National Laboratories on the
other side of the city. Above the
mist the sun caught the tip of the
eight story tower where the massive
field tunnels of the newly designed
gamma tron were to be installed.

Or were to have been installed.

The gammatron was expected to
make possible the creation of gravi-
tational fields up to five thousand
g’s. It would probably be a mere
toy to the Rykes, but Hockley felt a
fierce pride in its creation. Maybe
that was childish. Maybe his whole
feeling about the Lab was childish.
Perhaps the time had come to give
up childish things and take upon
themselves adulthood.

But looking across the city at the
concrete spire of the gammatron,
he didn’t believe it.

He heard the clank of metal
chairs as a couple of clerks began
bringing them in. Then there was
the clink of glassware. He turned to
see Miss Cardston stiffly indicating
a spot on the library table for the
glasses and the frosty bottles.

Hockley walked slowly to the
table and filled one of the glasses.
He raised it slowly. “It’s been a
short life but a merry one, gentle-
men.” He swallowed the contents of
the glass too quickly and returned
to his desk.

“You don’t sound very happy
about the whole thing,” said Mor-

RAYMOND F. JONES

tenson, a chemist who wore a neat,
silvery mustache.

“Are you overjoyed,” said Hock-
ley, “that we are to swap the Na-
tional Lab for a bottomless encyclo-
pedia?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Morten-
son. “There are some minor objec-
tions, but in the end I’m certain
we’ll all be satisfied with what we
get.55

“Satisfied! Happy!” exclaimed
the mathematician, Dr. Silvers.
“How can you use words so prosaic
and restrained in references to these
great events which we shall be
privileged to witness in our life-
times?”

He had taken his stand by the
library table and was now filling
the glasses with the clear, bubbling
champagne, sloshing it with ecstatic
abandon over the table and the rug.

Hockley glanced toward him.
“You don’t believe, then. Dr. Sil-
vers, that we should maintain any
reserve in regard to the Rykes?”

“None whatever! The gods them-
selves have stepped down and of-
fered an invitation direct to para-
dise. Should we question or hold
back, or say we are merely happy.
The proper response of a man
about to enter heaven is beyond
words!”

The bombast of the mathema-
tician never failed to enliven any
backroom session in which he par-
ticipated. “I have no doubt,” he
said, “that within a fortnight we
shall be in possession of a solution
to the Legrandian Equations. I
have sought this for forty years.”

“I think it would be a mistake to
support the closing of the National
Laboratories,” said Hockley slowly.

THE UNLEARNED

As if a switch had been thrown,
their expressions changed. There
was a sudden carefulness in their
stance and movements, as if they
were feinting before a deadly oppo-
nent.

“I don’t feel it’s such a bad bar-
gain,” said a thin, bespectacled
physicist named Judson. He was
seated across the room from Hock-
ley. “I’ll vote to sacrifice the Lab in
exchange for what the Rykes will
give us.”

“That’s the point,” said Hockley.
“Exactly what are the Rykes going
to give us? And we speak very glibly
of sharing their science. But shall
we actually be in any position to
share it? What becomes of the class
of scientists on Earth when the Lab
is abandoned?”

Wilkins stood abruptly, his hands
shoved part way into his pockets
and his lower jaw extended tensely.
“I don’t believe that’s part of this
question,” he said. It is not just we
scientists who are to share the bene-
fits of the Rykes. It is Mankind. At
this time we have no right to con-
sider mere personal concerns. We
would betray our whole calling —
our very humanity — if we thought
for one moment of standing in the
way of this development because of
our personal concern over economic
and professional problems. There
has never been a time when a true
scientist would not put aside his
personal concerns for the good of
all.”

Hockley waited, half expecting
somebody to start clapping. No one
did, but there were glances of self-
righteous approval in Wilkins’ di-
rection. The biologist straightened
the sleeves of his coat with a smug

11

gesture and awaited Hockley’s re-
buttal.

“We are Mankind,” Hockley said
finally. “You and I are as much a
part of humanity as that bus load
of punch machine clerks and store
managers passing on the street out-
side. If we betray ourselves we have
betrayed humanity.

“This is not a sudden thing. It is
the end point of a trend which has
gone on for a long time. It began
with our first contacts beyond the
galaxy, when we realized there were
peoples far in advance of us in
science and economy. We have been
feeding on them ever since. Our
own developments have shrunk in
direct proportion. For a long time
we’ve been on the verge of becom-
ing intellectual parasites in the Uni-
verse. Acceptance of the Ryke offer
will be the final step in that direc-
tion.”

Instantly, almost every other
man in the room was talking at
once. Hockley smiled faintly until
the angry voices subsided. Then Sil-
vers cleared his throat gently. He
placed his glass beside the bottles
on the table with a precise motion.
“I am sure,” he said, “that a mo-
ment’s thought will convince you
that you do not mean what you
have just said.

“Consider the position of pupil
and teacher. One of Man’s greatest
failings is his predilection for assum-
ing always the position of teacher
and eschewing that of pupil. There
is also the question of humility, in-
tellectual humility. We scientists
have always boasted of our readi-
ness to set aside one so-called truth
and accept another with more valid
supporting evidence.

12

“Since our first contact with
other galactic civilizations we have
had the utmost need to adopt an
attitude of humility. We have been
fortunate in coming to a community
of worlds where war and oppression
are not standard rules of procedure.
Among our own people we have
encountered no such magnanimity
as has been extended repeatedly by
other worlds, climaxed now by the
Ryke’s magnificent offer.

“To adopt sincere intellectual
humility and the attitude of the
pupil is not to function as a parasite,
Dr. Hockley.”

“Your analogy of teacher and
pupil is very faulty in expressing our
relation to the Rykes,” said Hock-
ley. “Or perhaps I should say it
is too hellishly accurate. Would you
have us remain the eternal pupils?
The closing of the National
Laboratories means an irreversible
change in our position. Is it worth
gaining a universe of knowledge to
give up your own personal free in-
quiry?”

“I am sure none of us considers
he is giving up his personal free in-
quiry,” said Silvers almost angrily.
“We see unlimited expansion be-
yond anything we have imagined in
our wildest dreams.”

On a few faces there were frowns
of uncertainty, but no one spoke
up to support him. Hockley knew
that until this vision of paradise
wore off there were none of them on
whom he could count.

He smiled broadly and stood up
to ease the tension in the room.
“Well, it appears you have made
your decision. Of course, Congress
can accept the Ryke plan whether
we approve or not, but it is good to

RAYMOND F. JONES

go on record one way or the other.
I suppose that on the way out to-
night it would be proper to check in
at Personnel and file a services
available notification.”

And then he wished he hadn’t
said that. Their faces grew a little
more set at his unappreciated at-
tempt at humor.

SHQWALTER remained after
the others left. He sat across the
desk while Hockley turned back
to the window. Only the tip of the
gammatron tower now caught the
late afternoon sunlight.

“Maybe I’m getting old,” Hock-
ley said. “Maybe they’re right and
the Lab isn’t worth preserving if it
means the difference between get-
ting or not getting tutelage from the
Rykes.”

“But you don’t feel that’s true,”
said Showalter.

“No.”

“You’re the one who built the
Lab into what it is. It has as much
worth as it ever had, and you have
an obligation to keep it from being
destroyed by a group of politicians
who could never understand its
necessity.”

“I didn’t build it,” said Hockley.
“It grew because I was able to find
enough people who wanted the in-
stitution to exist. But I’ve been
away from research so long — I
never was much good at it really.
Did you ever know that? I’ve al-
ways thought of myself as a sort of
impressario of scientific produc-
tions, if I might use such a term.
Maybe those closer to the actual
work are right. Maybe I’m just
trying to hang onto the past. It

could be time for a jump to a new
kind of progress.”

“You don’t believe any of that.”

Hockley looked steadily in the di-
rection of the Lab buildings. “I
don’t believe any of it. That isn’t
just an accumulation of buildings
over there, with a name attached to
them. It’s the advancing terminal
of all Man’s history of trying to find
out about himself and the Universe.
It started before Neanderthal
climbed into his caves a half million
years ago. From then until now
there’s a steady path of trial and
error— of learning. There’s exulta-
tion and despair, success and fail-
ure. Now they want to say it was all
for nothing.”

“But to be pupils — to let the
Rykes teach us — ”

“The only trouble with Silvers’
argument is that our culture has
never understood that teaching, in
the accepted sense, is an impossi-
bility. There can be only learning —
never teaching. The teacher has to
be eliminated from the actual learn-
ing process before genuine learning
can ever take place. But the Rykes
offer to become the Ultimate
Teacher.”

“And if this is true,” said Show-
alter slowly, “you couldn’t teach it
to those who disagree, could you?
They’d have to learn it for them-
selves.”

Hockley turned. For a moment
he continued to stare at his as-
sistant. Then his face broke into a
narrow grin. “Of course you’re
right 1 There’s only one way they’ll
ever learn it : go through the actual
experience of what Ryke tutelage
will mean.”

THE UNLEARNED

13

Most of the workrooms at In-
formation Central were empty this
time of evening. Hockley selected
the first one he came to and called
for every scrap of data pertaining
to Rykeman III. There was a fair
amount of information available on
the physical characteristics of the
world. Hockley scribbled swift, pri-
vately intelligible notes as he
scanned. The Rykes lived under a
gravity one third heavier than
Earth’s, with a day little more than
half as long, and they received only
forty percent as much heat from
their frail sun as Earthmen were
accustomed to.

Cultural characteristics included
a trading system that made the en-
tire planet a single economic unit.
And the planet had no history what-
ever of war. The Rykes themselves
had contributed almost nothing to
the central libraries of the galaxies
concerning their own personal
makeup and mental functions, how-
ever. What little was available came
from observers not of their race.

There were indications they were
a highly unemotional race, not
given to any artistic expression.
Hockley found this surprising. The
general rule was for highly intellec-
tual attainments to be accompanied
by equally high artistic expression.

But all of this provided no data
that he could relate to his present
problem, no basis for argument be-
yond what he already had. He re-
turned the films to their silver cans
and set staring at the neat pile of
them on the desk. Then he smiled
at his own obtuseness. Data on
Rykeman III might be lacking, but
the Ryke plan had been tried on
plenty of other worlds. Data on

them should not be so scarce.

He returned the cans and
punched out a new request on the
call panel. Twenty seconds later he
was pleasantly surprised by a score
of new tapes in the hopper. That
was enough for a full night’s work.
He wished he’d brought Sho waiter
along to help.

Then his eye caught sight of the
label on the topmost can in the pile :
Janisson VIII. The name rang a
familiar signal somewhere deep in
his mind. Then he knew — that was
the home world of Waldon Thar,
one of his closest friends in the year
when he’d gone to school at Galac-
tic Center for advanced study.

Thar had been one of the most
brilliant researchers Hockley had
ever known. In bull session debate
he was instantly beyond the depth
of everyone else.

Janisson VIII. Thar could tell
him about the Rykes!

Hockley pushed the tape cans
aside and went to the phone in the
workroom. He dialed for the inter-
stellar operator. “Government pri-
ority call to Janisson VIII,” he
said. “Waldon Thar. He attended
Galactic Center Research Institute
twenty-three years ago. He came
from the city Plar, which was his
home at that time. I have no other
information, except that he is prob-
ably employed as a research scien-
tist.”

There was a moment’s silence
while the operator noted the in-
formation. “There will be some de-
lay,” she said finally. “At present
the inter-galactic beams are full.”

“I can use top emergency priority
on this,” said Hockley. “Can you
clear a trunk for me on that?”

14

RAYMOND F. JONES

“Yes. One moment, please.”

He sat by the window for half
an hour, turning down the light in
the workroom so that he could see
the flow of traffic at the port west
of the Lab buildings. Two space-
ships took off and three came in
while he waited. And . then the
phone rang.

“I’m sorry,” the operator said.
“Waldon Thar is reported not on
Janisson VIII. He went to Ryke-
man III about two Earth years ago.
Do you wish to attempt to locate
him there?”

“By all means,” said Hockley.
“Same priority.”

This was better than he had
hoped for. Thar could really get
him the information he needed on
the Rykes. Twenty minutes later the
phone rang again. In the operator’s
first words Hockley sensed apology
and knew the attempt had failed.

“Our office has learned that Wal-
den Thar is at present on tour as
aide to the Ryke emissary, Liacan.
We can perhaps trace — ”

“No!” Hockley shouted. “That
won’t be necessary. I know now — ”
He almost laughed aloud to him-
self. This was an incredible piece
of good luck. Walden Thar was
probably out at the space port right
now — unless one of those ships tak-
ing off had been the Ryke —

He wondered why Thar had not
tried to contact him. Of course,
it had been a long time, but they
had been very close at the center.
He dialed the field control tower.
“I want to know if the ship from
Rykeman III has departed yet,” he
said.

“They were scheduled for six
hours ago, but mechanical difficulty

THE UNLEARNED

has delayed them. Present estimated
take-off is 1100.”

Almost two hours to go, Hockley
thought. That should be time
enough. “Please put me in com-
munication with one of the aides
aboard named Waldon Thar. This
is Sherman Hockley of Scientific
Services. Priority request.”

“I’ll try, sir.” The tower operator
manifested a sudden increase of
respect. “One moment, please.”
Hockley heard the buzz and
switch clicks of communication cir-
cuits reaching for the ship. Then,
in a moment, he heard the some-
what irritated but familiar voice of
his old friend.

“Waldon Thar speaking,” the
voice said. “Who wishes to talk?”
“Listen, you old son of a cyclo-
tron’s maiden aunt!” said Hockley.
“Who would want to talk on Sol
III? Why didn’t you give me a buzz
when you landed? I just found out
you were here.”

“Sherm Hockley, of course,” the
voice said with distant, unperturbed
tones. “This is indeed a surprise and
a pleasure. To be honest, I had for-
gotten Earth was your home
planet.”

“I’ll try to think of something to
jog your memory next time. How
about getting together?”

“Well — I don’t have very long,”
said Thar hesitantly. “If you could
come over for a few minutes — ”
Hockley had the jolting feeling
that Waldon Thar would just as
soon pass up the opportunity for
their meeting. Some of the en-
thusiasm went out of his voice.
“There’s a good all-night inter-
planetary eatery and bar on the
field there. I’ll be along in fifteen

15

minutes.”

“Fine/’ said Thar, “but please
try not to be late.”

On the way to the field, Hockley
wondered about the change that
had apparently taken place in Thar.
Of course, he had changed, too —
perhaps for much the worse. But
Thar sounded like a stuffed shirt
now, and that is the last thing
Hockley would have expected. In
school, Thar had been the most ir-
reverent of the whole class of irrev-
erents, denouncing in ecstasy the
established and unproven lore, rid-
ing the professors of unsubstanti-
ated hypotheses. Now — well, he
didn’t sound like the Thar Hockley
knew.

He took a table and sat down just
as Thar entered the dining room.
The latter’s broad smile mo-
mentarily removed Hockley’s
doubts. The smile hadn’t changed.
And there was the same expression
of devilish disregard for the estab-
lished order. The same warm
friendliness. It baffled Hockley to
understand how Thar could have
failed to remember Earth was his
home.

Thar mentioned it as he came up
and took Hockley’s hand. “I’m ter-
ribly sorry,” he said. “It was stupid
to forget that Earth meant Sherman
Hockley.”

“I know how it is. I should have
written. I guess I’m the one who
owes a letter.”

“No, I think not,” said Thar.

They sat on opposite sides of a
small table near a window and or-
dered drinks. On the field they
could see the vast, shadowy outline
of the Ryke vessel.

16

Thar was of a race genetically
close to the Rykes. He lacked the
feathery covering, but this was re-
placed by a layer of thin scales,
which had a tendency to stand on
edge when he was excited. He also
wore a breathing piece, and carried
the small shoulder tank with a faint
air of superiority.

Hockley watched him with a
growing sense of loss. The first im-
pression had been more nearly cor-
rect. Thar hadn’t wanted to meet
him.

“It’s been a long time,” said
Hockley lamely. “I guess there isn’t
much we did back there that means
anything now.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” said
Thar as if recognizing he had been
too remote. “Every hour of our ac-
quaintance meant a great deal to
me. I’ll never forgive myself for
forgetting — but tell me how you
learned I was aboard the Ryke
ship.”

“The Rykes have made us an
offer. I wanted to find out the ef-
fects on worlds that had accepted. I
learned Janisson VIII was one, so I
started looking.”

“I’m so very glad you did, Sherm.
You want me to confirm, of course,
the advisability of accepting the
offer Liacan has made.”

“Confirm — or deny it,” said
Hockley.

Thar spread his clawlike hands.
“Deny it? The most glorious oppor-
tunity a planet could possibly
have?”

Something in Thar’s voice gave
Hockley a sudden chill. “How has
it worked on your own world?”

“Janisson VIII has turned from
a slum to a world of mansions. Our

RAYMOND F. JONES

economic problems have been
solved. Health and long life are rou-
tine. There is nothing we want that
we cannot have for the asking.55

“But are you satisfied with it? Is
there nothing which you had to give
up that you would like returned?55

Waldon Thar threw back his
head and laughed in high pitched
tones. “I might have known that
would be the question you would
ask! Forgive me, friend Sherman,
but I had almost forgotten how un-
venturesome you are.

“Your question is ridiculous. Why
should we wish to go back to our
economic inequalities, poverty and
distress, our ignorant plodding re-
search in science? You can answer
your own question.55

They were silent for a moment.
Hockley thought his friend would
have gladly terminated their visit
right there and returned to his ship.
To forestall this, he leaned across
the table and asked, “Your science
— what has become of that?55

“Our science! We never had any.
We were ignorant children playing
with mud and rocks. We knew noth-
ing. We had nothing. Until the
Rykes offered to educate us.55

“Surely you don’t believe that,55
said Hockley quietly. “The problem
you worked on at the Institute —
gravity at micro-cosmic levels. That
was not a childish thing.55

Thar laughed shortly and bitter-
ly. “What disillusionment you have
coming, friend Sherman! If you
only knew how truly childish it was.
Wait until you learn from the Rykes
the true conception of gravity, its
nature and the part it plays in the
structure of matter.55

Hockley felt a sick tightening

THE UNLEARNED

within him. This was not the Wal-
don Thar, the wild demon who
thrust aside all authority and rumor
in his own headlong search for
knowledge. It couldn’t be Thar
who was sitting passively by, being
told what the nature of the Universe
is.

“Your scientists — ?55 Hockley
persisted. “What has become of all
your researchers?55

“The answer is the same,55 said
Thar. “We had no science. We had
no scientists. Those who once went
by that name have become for the
first time honest students knowing
the pleasure of studying at the feet
of masters.55

“You have set up laboratories in
which your researches are super-
vised by the Rykes?55

“Laboratories? We have no need
of laboratories. We have workshops
and study rooms where we try to
absorb that which the Rykes dis-
covered long ago. Maybe at some
future time we will come to a point
where we can reach into the fron-
tier of knowledge with our own
minds, but this does not seem likely
now.55

“So you have given up all orig-
inal research of your own?55

“How could we do otherwise?
The Rykes have all the answers to
any question we have intelligence
enough to ask. Follow them, Sher-
man. It is no disgrace to be led by
such as the Ryke teachers.55

“Don’t you ever long,55 said
Hockley, “to take just one short step
on your own two feet?55

“Why crawl when you can go by
trans-light carrier?”

Thar sipped the last of his drink
and glanced toward the wall clock.

17

“I must go. I can understand the
direction of your questions and your
thinking. You hesitate because you
might lose the chance to play in the
mud and count the pretty pebbles
in the sand. Put away childish
things. You will never miss them!”

They shook hands, and a moment
later Hockley said goodbye to Thar
at the entrance to the field. “I know
Earth will accept,” said Thar. “And
you and I should not have lost con-
tact— but we’ll make up for it.”

Watching him move toward the
dark hulk of the ship, Hockley won-
dered if Thar actually believed that.
In less than an hour they had ex-
hausted all they had to say after
twenty years. Hockley had the in-
formation he needed about the
Ryke plan, but he wished he could
have kept his old memories of his
student friend. Thar was drunk on
the heady stuff being peddled by
the Rykes, and if what he said were
true, it was strong enough to intoxi-
cate a whole planet.

His blood grew cold at the
thought. This was more than a fight
for the National Laboratories. It
was a struggle to keep all Mankind
from becoming what Thar had be-
come.

If he could have put Thar on ex-
hibition in the meeting tomorrow,
and shown what he was once like,
he would have made his point. But
Thar, before and after, was not
available for exhibit. He had to find
another way to show his colleagues
and the Senators what the Rykes
would make of them.

He glanced at his watch. They
wouldn’t like being wakened at this
hour, but neither would the scien-
tists put up much resistance to his

18

request for support in Markham’s
meeting. He went back to the bar
and called each of his colleages
who had been in the meeting that
day.

HOCKLEY was called first when
the assembly convened at ten
that morning. He rose slowly from
his seat near Markham and glanced
over the somewhat puzzled expres-
sions of the scientists.

“I don’t know that I can speak
for the entire group of scientists
present,” he said. “We met yester-
day and found some differences of
opinion concerning this offer. While
it is true there is overwhelming
sentiment supporting it, certain
questions remain, which we feel re-
quire additional data in order to be
answered properly.

“While we recognize that official
acceptance can be given to the
Rykes with no approval whatever
from the scientists, it seems only
fair that we should have every op-
portunity to make what we consid-
er a proper study and to express
our opinions in the matter.

“To the non-scientist — and per-
haps to many of my colleages — it
may seem inconceivable that there
could be any questions whatever.
But we wonder about the position
of students of future generations,
we wonder about the details of ad-
ministration of the program, we
wonder about the total effects of the
program upon our society as a
whole. We wish to ask permission to
make further study of the matter in
an effort to answer these questions
and many others. We request per-
mission to go as a committee to

RAYMOND F. JONES

Rykeman III and make a first hand
study of what the Rykes propose to
do, how they will teach us, and how
they will dispense the information
they so generously offer.

“I ask that you consider this most
seriously, and make an official re-
quest of the Rykes to grant us such
opportunity for study, that you pro-
vide the necessary appropriations
for the trip. I consider it most ur-
gent that this be done at once.”

There was a stir of concern and
disapproval from Congressional
members as Hockley sat down.
Senators leaned to speak in whis-
pers to their neighbors, but Hockley
observed the scientists remained
quiet and impassive. He believed he
had sold them in his telephone calls
during the early morning. They
liked the idea of obtaining addition-
al data. Besides, most of them
wanted to see Rykeman III for
themselves.

Senator Markham finally stood
up, obviously disturbed by Hock-
ley’s abrupt proposal. “It has
seemed to us members of the Com-
mittee that there could hardly be
any need for more data than is al-
ready available to us. The remark-
able effects of Ryke science on other
backward worlds is common knowl-
edge.

“On the other hand we recog-
nize the qualifications of you gen-
tlemen which make your request ap-
pear justified. We will have to dis-
cuss this at length, but at the
moment I believe I can say I am
in sympathy with your request and
can encourage my Committee to
give it serious consideration.”

A great deal more was said on

THE UNLEARNED

that and subsequent days. News of
the Ryke offer was not given to the
public, but landing of the Ryke
ship could not be hidden. It became
known that Liacan carried his offer
to other worlds and speculation was
made that he offered it to Earth
also. Angry questions were raised as
to why the purpose of the visit was
not clarified, but government si-
lence was maintained while Hock-
ley’s request was considered.

It encountered bitter debate in
the closed sessions, but permission
was finally given for a junket of
ninety scientists and ten senators to
Rykeman III.

This could not be hidden, so the
facts were modified and a story
given out that the party was going
to request participation in the Ryke
program being offered other worlds,
that Liacan’s visit had not been
conclusive.

In the days preceding the take-
off Hockley felt a sense of destiny
weighing heavily upon him. He read
every word of the stream of opinion
that flowed through the press. Every
commentator and columnist seemed
called upon to make his own specific
analysis of the possibilities of the
visit to Rykeman III. And the
opinions were almost uniform that
it would be an approach to Utopia
to have the Rykes take over. Hock-
ley was sickened by this mass con-
version to the siren call of the Rykes.

It was a tremendous relief when
the day finally came and the huge
transport ship lifted solemnly into
space.

Most of the group were in the
ship’s lounge watching the television
port as the Earth drifted away be-
neath them. Senator Markham

19

seemed nervous and almost fright-
ened, Hockley thought, as if some-
thing intangible had escaped him.

“I hope we’re not wasting our
time,” he said. “Not that I don’t
understand your position,” he
added hastily to cover the show of
antagonism he sensed creeping into
his voice.

“We appreciate your support,”
said Hockley, “and we’ll do our best
to see the time of the investigation
is not wasted.”

But afterwards, when the two of
them were alone by the screen, Sil-
vers spoke to Hockley soberly. The
mathematician had lost some of the
wild exuberance he’d had at first.
It had been replaced by a deep, in-
tense conviction that nothing must
stand in the way of Earth’s alliance
with the Rykes.

“We all understand why you
wanted us to come,” he said. “We
know you believe this delay will
cool our enthusiasm. It’s only fair
to make clear that it won’t. How
you intend to change us by taking
us to the home of the Rykes has got
us all baffled. The reverse will be
true, I am very sure. We intend to
make it clear to the Rykes that we
accept their offer. I hope you have
no plan to make a declaration to the
contrary.”

Hockley kept his eyes on the
screen, watching the green sphere
of Earth. “I have no intention of
making any statement of any kind.
I was perfectly honest when I said
our understanding of the Rykes
would profit by this visit. You all
agreed. I meant nothing more nor
less than what I said. I hope no one
in the group thinks otherwise.”

“We don’t know,” said Silvers.

“It’s just that you’ve got us won-
dering how you expect to change
our views.”

“I have not said that is my inten-
tion.”

“Can you say it is not?”

“No, I cannot say that. But the
question is incomplete. My whole
intention is to discover as fully as
possible what will be the result of
alliance with the Rykes. If you
should conclude that it will be un-
favorable that will be the result of
your own direct observations and
computations, not of my argu-
ments.”

“You may be sure that is one
thing that will not occur,” said Sil-
vers.

IT TOOK them a month to reach
a transfer point where they could
change to a commercial vessel us-
ing Ryke principles. In the follow-
ing week they covered a distance
several thousand times that which
they had already come. And then
they were on Rykeman III.

A few of them had visited the
planet previously, on vacation trips
or routine study expeditions, but
most of them were seeing it for the
first time. While well out into space
the group began crowding the vision
screens which brought into range
the streets and buildings of the
cities. They could see the people
walking and riding there.

Hockley caught his breath at the
sight, and doubts overwhelmed him,
telling him he was an utter and
complete fool. The city upon which
he looked was a jewel of perfection.
Buildings were not indiscriminate
masses of masonry and metal and

RAYMOND F. JONES

20

plastic heaped up without regard to
the total effect. Rather, the city was
a unit created with an eye to esthe-
tic perfection.

Silvers stood beside Hockley.
“We’ve got a chance to make Earth
look that way/’ said the mathema-
tician.

“There’s only one thing missing,”
said Hockley. “The price tag. We
still need to know what it’s going to
cost.”

Upon landing, the Earthmen
were greeted by a covey of their
bird-like hosts who scurried about,
introducing themselves in their high
whistling voices. In busses, they
were moved half way across the city
to a building which stood beside an
enormous park area.

It was obviously a building de-
signed for the reception of just such
delegations as this one, giving Hock-
ley evidence that perhaps his idea
was not so original after all. It was
a relief to get inside after their brief
trip across the city. Gravity,
temperature, and air pressure and
composition duplicated those of
Earth inside, and conditions could
be varied to accommodate many
different species. Hockley felt con-
fident they could become accus-
tomed to outside conditions after a
few days, but it was exhausting now
to be out for long.

They were shown to individual
quarters and given leisure to un-
pack and inspect their surroundings.
Furniture had been adjusted to
their size and needs. The only over-
sight Hockley could find was a faint
odor of chlorine lingering in the
closets. He wondered who the last
occupant of the room had been.

After a noon meal, served with

THE UNLEARNED

foods of astonishingly close approxi-
mation to their native fare, the
group was offered a prelude to the
general instruction and indoctrina-
tion which would begin the follow-
ing day. This was in the form of a
guided tour through the science
museum which, Hockley gathered,
was a modernized Ryke parallel to
the venerable Smithsonian back
home. The tour was entirely option-
al, as far as the planned program of
the Rykes was concerned, but none
of the Earthmen turned it down.

Hockley tried to concentrate
heavily on the memory of Waldon
Thar and keep the image of his
friend always before him as he
moved through the city and in-
spected the works of the Rykes. He
found it helped suppress the awe
and adulation which he had an im-
pulse to share with his companions.

It was possible even, he found,
to adopt a kind of truculent cyni-
cism toward the approach the Rykes
were making. The visit to the sci-
ence museum could be an attempt
to bowl them over with an eon-
long vista of Ryke superiority in the
sciences. At least that was most cer-
tainly the effect on them. Hockley
cursed his own feeling of ignorance
and inferiority as the guide led them
quietly past the works of the mas-
ters, offering but little comment,
letting them see for themselves the
obvious relationships.

In the massive display showing
developments of spaceflight, the
atomic vessels, not much different
from Earthmen’s best efforts, were
far down the line, very near to the
earliest attempts of the Rykes to
rocket their way into space. Beyond
that level was an incredible series of

21

developments incomprehensible to
most of the Earthmen.

And to all their questions the
guide offered the monotonous re-
ply: “That will be explained to you
later. We only wish to give you an
overall picture of our culture at the
present time.55

But this was not enough for one
of the astronomers, named Moore,
who moved ahead of Hockley in the
crowd. Hockley saw the back of
Moore’s neck growing redder by
the minute as the guide’s evasive
answer was repeated. Finally,
Moore forced a discussion regarding
the merits of some systems of com-
paring the brightness of stars, which
the guide briefly showed them. The
guide, in great annoyance, burst
out with a stream of explanation
that completely flattened any
opinions Moore might have had.
But at the same time the astronomer
grinned amiably at the Ryke.
“That ought to settle that,” he said.
“I’ll bet it won’t take a week to get
our system changed back home.”

22

Moore’s success loosened the re-
straint of the others and they be-
seiged the guide mercilessly then
with opinions, questions, compari-
sons— and even mild disapprovals.
The guide’s exasperation was ob-
vious— and pleasant — to Hockley,
who remained a bystander. It was
frightening to Markham and some
of the other senators who were un-
able to take part in the discussion.
But most of the scientists failed to
notice it in their eagerness to learn.

After dinner that night they
gathered in the lounge and study
of their quarters. Markham stood
beside Hockley as they partook cau-
tiously of the cocktails which the
Rykes had attempted to duplicate
for them. The Senator’s awe had
returned to overshadow any con-
cern he felt during the events of the
afternoon. “A wonderful day!” he
said. “Even though this visit delays
completion of our arrangements
with the Rykes those of us here will
be grateful forever that you pro-
posed it. Nothing could have so im-
pressed us all with the desirability
of accepting the Ryke’s tutelage. It
was a stroke of genius, Dr. Hockley.
And for a time I thought you were
actually opposed to the Rykes!”

He sipped his drink while Hock-
ley said nothing. Then his brow
furrowed a bit. “But I wonder why
our guide cut short our tour this
afternoon. If I recall correctly he
said at the beginning there was a
great deal more to see than he ac-
tually showed us.”

Hockley smiled and sipped polite-
ly at his drink before he set it down
and faced the Senator. “I was won-
dering if anyone else noticed that,”
he said.

RAYMOND F. JONES

HOCKLEY slept well that night
except for the fact that occa-
sional whiffs of chlorine seemed to
drift from various corners of the
room even though he turned the
air-conditioning system on full blast.

In the morning there began a
series of specialized lectures which
had been prepared in accordance
with the Earthmen’s request to ac-
quaint them with what they would
be getting upon acceptance of the
Ryke offer.

It was obviously no new experi-
ence for the Rykes. The lectures
were well prepared and anticipated
many questions. The only thing new
about it, Hockley thought, was the
delivery in the language of the
Earthmen. Otherwise, he felt this
was something prepared a long time
ago and given a thousand times or
more.

They were divided into smaller
groups according to their special-
ties, electronic men going one way,
astronomers and mathematical
physicists another, chemists and
general physicists in still another
direction. Hockley, Sho waiter and
the senators were considered more
or less free floating members of the
delegation with the privilege of
visiting with one group or another
according to their pleasure.

Hockley chose to spend the first
day with the chemists, since that
was his own first love. Dr. Sho-
walter and Senator Markham came
along with him. As much as he tried
he found it virtually impossible not
to sit with the same open-mouthed
wonder that his colleagues exhib-
ited. The swift, free-flowing exposi-
tion of the Ryke lecturer led them
immediately beyond their own

THE UNLEARNED

realms, but so carefully did he lead
them that it seemed that they must
have come this way before, and for-
gotten it.

Hockley felt half angry with him-
self. He felt he had allowed himself
to be hypnotized by the skill of the
Ryke, and wondered despairingly if
there were any chance at all of com-
bating their approach. He saw noth-
ing to indicate it in the experience
of that day or the ones immediately
following. But he retained hope that
there was much significance in the
action of the guide who had cut
short their visit to the museum.

In the evenings, in the study
lofinge of the dormitory, they held
interminable bull sessions exchang-
ing and digesting what they had
been shown during the day. It was
at the end of the third day that
Hockley thought he could detect a
subtle change in the group. He had
some difficulty analyzing it at first.
It seemed to be a growing aliveness,
a sort of recovery. And then he
recognized that the initial stunned
reaction to the magnificence of the
Rykes was passing off. They had
been shocked by the impact of the
Rykes, almost as if they had been
struck a blow on the head. Tempo-
rarily, they had shelved all their
own analytical and critical facilities
and yielded to the Rykes without
question.

Now they were beginning to re-
cover, springing back to a condition
considerably nearer normal. Hock-
ley felt a surge of encouragement as
he detected a more sharply critical
evaluation in the conversations that
buzzed around him. The enthusi-
asm was more measured.

It was the following evening,

23

however, that witnessed the first
event of pronounced shifting of any-
one’s attitude. They had finished
dinner and were gathering in the
lounge, sparring around, setting up
groups for the bull sessions that
would go until long after midnight.
Most of them had already settled
down and were talking part in con-
versations or were listening quietly
when they were suddenly aware of
a change in the atmosphere of the
room.

For a moment there was a general
turning of heads to locate the
source of the disturbance. Hockley
knew he could never describe just
what made him look around, but
he was abruptly conscious that Dr.
Silvers was walking into the lounge
and looking slowly about at those
gathered there. Something in his
presence was like the sudden ap-
pearance of a thundercloud, his face
seemed to reflect the dark turbu-
lence of a summer storm.

He said nothing, however, to any-
one but strode over and sat beside
Hockley, who was alone at the mo-
ment smoking the next to last of his
Earthside cigars. Hockley felt the
smouldering turmoil inside the
mathematician. He extended his
final cigar. Silvers brushed it away.

“The last one,” said Hockley
mildly. “In spite of all their abilities
the Ryke imitations are somewhat
less than natural.”

Silvers turned slowly to face
Hockley. “I presented them with
the Legrandian Equations today,”
he said. “I expected to get a
straightforward answer to a perfect-
ly legitimate scientific question.
That is what we were led to expect,
was it not?”

24

Hockley nodded. “That’s my im-
pression. Did you get something less
than a straightforward answer?”
The mathematician exhaled nois-
ily. “The Legrandian Equations will
lead to a geometry as revolutionary
as Riemann’s was in his day. But
I was told by the Rykes that I
‘should dismiss it from all further
consideration. It does not lead to
any profitable mathematical de-
velopment.’ ”

Hockley felt that his heart most
certainly skipped a beat, but he
managed to keep his voice steady,
and sympathetic. “That’s too bad.
I know what high hopes you had. I
suppose you will give up work on
the Equations now?”

“I will not!” Silvers exclaimed
loudly. Nearby groups who had re-
turned hesitantly to their own con-
versations now stared at him again.
But abruptly he changed his tone
and looked almost pleadingly at
Hockley. “I don’t understand it.
Why should they say such a thing?
It appears to be one of the most
profitable avenues of exploration I
have encountered in my whole
career. And the Rykes brush it
aside!”

“What did you say when they
told you to give it up?”

“I said I wanted to know where
the development would lead. I said
it had been indicated that we could
have an answer to any scientific
problem within the range of their
abilities, and certainly this is, from
what I’ve seen.

“The instructor replied that I’d
been given an answer to my ques-
tion, that ‘the first lesson you must
learn if you wish to acquire our
pace in science is to recognize that

RAYMOND F. JONES

we have been along the path ahead
of you. We know which are the pos-
sibilities that are worthwhile to de*
velop. We have gained our speed by
learning to bypass every avenue but
the main one, and not get lost in
tempting side roads.9

“He said that we’ve got to learn
to trust them and take their word as
to which is the correct and profit-
able field of research, that ‘we will
show you where to go, as we agreed
to do. If you are not willing to ac-
cept our leadership in this respect
our agreement means nothing.’
Wouldn’t that be a magnificent
way to make scientific progress!”

The mathematician shifted in his
chair as if trying to control an in-
ternal fury that would not be
capped. He held out his hand
abruptly. “I’ll take that cigar after
all, if you don’t mind, Hockley.”

With savage energy he chewed
the end and ignited the cigar, then
blew a mammoth cloud of smoke
ceilingward. “I think the trouble
must be in our lecturer,” he said.
“He’s crazy. He couldn’t possibly
represent the conventional attitude
of the Rykes. They promised to give
answers to our problems — and this
is the kind of nonsense I get. I’m
going to see somebody higher up
and find out why we can’t have a
lecturer who knows what he’s
talking about. Or maybe you or
Markham would rather take it up
— through official channels, as it
were?”

“The Ryke was correct,” said
Hockley. “He did give you an an-
swer.”

“He could answer all our ques-
tions that way!”

“You’re perfectly right,” said

THE UNLEARNED

Hockley soberly. “He could do ex-
actly that.”

“They won’t of course,” said Sil-
vers, defensively. “Even if this par-
ticular character isn’t just playing
the screwball, my question is just a
special case. It’s just one particular
thing they consider to be valueless.
Perhaps in the end I’ll find they’re
right — but I’m going to develop a
solution to these Equations if it
takes the rest of my life!

“After all, they admit they have
no solution, that they have not
bothered to go down this particular
side path, as they put it. If we don’t
go down it how can we ever know
whether it’s worthwhile or not?
How can the Rykes know what they
may have missed by not doing so?”

“I can’t answer that,” said Hock-
ley. “For us or for them, I know of
no other way to predict the outcome
of a specific line of research except
to carry it through and find out
what lies at the end of the road.”

HOCKLEY didn’t sleep very well
after he finally went to bed
that night. Silvers had presented
him with the break he had been ex-
pecting and hoping for. The first
chink in the armor of sanctity sur-
rounding the Rykes. Now he won-
dered what would follow, if this
would build up to the impassable
barrier he wanted, or if it would
merely remain a sore obstacle in
their way but eventually be by-
passed and forgotten.

He did not believe it would be
the only incident of its kind. There
would be others as the Earthmen’s
stunned, blind acceptance gave way
completely to sound, critical evalu*

25

ation. And in any case there was
one delegate who would never be
the same again. No matter how he
eventually rationalized it Dr. For-
man K. Silvers would never feel
quite the same about the Rykes as
he did before they rejected his fav-
orite piece of research.

Hockley arose early, eager but
cautious, his senses open for further
evidence of disaffection springing
up. He joined the group of chemists
once more for the morning lecture.
The spirit of the group was marked-
ly higher than when he first met
with them. They had been inspired
by what the Rykes had shown them,
but in addition their own sense of
judgment had been brought out of
suspension.

The Ryke lecturer began inscrib-
ing on the board an enormous or-
ganic formula, using conventions of
Earth chemistry for the benefit of
his audience. He explained at some
length a number of transformations
which it was possible to make in the
compound by means of high in-
tensity fields.

Almost at once, one of the young-
er chemists named Dr. Carmen,
was on his feet exclaiming excitedly
that one of the transformation com-
pounds was a chemical on which he
had conducted an extensive re-
search. He had produced enough to
know that it had a multitude of in-
triguing properties, and now he was
exuberant at the revelation of a
method of producing it in quantity
and also further transforming it.

At his sudden enthusiasm the lec-
turer’s face took on what they had
come to recognize as a very dour
look. “That series of transforma-
tions has no interest for us,” he said.

26

“I merely indicated its existence to
show one of the possibilities which
should be avoided. Over here you
see the direction in which we wish
to go.”

“But you never saw anything
with properties like that!” Carmen
protested. “It goes through an in-
credible series of at least three crys-
talline-liquid phase changes with an
increase in pressure alone. But with
proper control of heat it can be
kept in the crystalline phase regard-
less of pressure. It is closely related
to a drug series with anesthetic
properties, and is almost sure to
be valuable in — ”

The Ryke lecturer cut him off
sharply. “I have explained,” he said,
“the direction of transformation in
which we are interested. Your con-
cern is not with anything beyond
the boundaries which our study has
proven to be the direct path of re-
search and study.”

“Then I should abandon research
on this series of chemicals?” Car-
men asked with a show of outward
meekness.

The Ryke nodded with pleasure
at Carmen’s submissiveness. “That
is it precisely. We have been over
this ground long ago. We know
where the areas of profitable study
lie. You will be told what to observe
and what to ignore. How could you
ever hope to make progress if you
stopped to examine every alternate
probability and possibility that ap-
peared to you?” He shook his head
vigorously and his plume vibrated
with emotion.

“You must have a plan,” he con-
tinued. “A goal. Study of the Uni-
verse cannot proceed in any ran-
dom, erratic fashion. You must

RAYMOND F. JONES

know what you want and then find
out where to look for it.”

Carmen sat down slowly. Hock-
ley was sure the Ryke did not notice
the tense bulge of the chemist’s jaw
muscles. Perhaps he would not have
understood the significance if he
had noticed.

Hockley was a trifle late in get-
ting to the dining room at lunch
time that day. By the time he did
so the place was like a beehive. He
was almost repelled by the furor of
conversation circulating in the room
as he entered.

He passed through slowly, search-
ing for a table of his own. He
paused a moment behind Dr. Car-
men, who was declaiming in no
mild terms his opinions of a system
that would pre-select those areas
of research which were to be en-
tered and those which were not. He
smiled a little as he caught the eye
of one of the dozen chemists seated
at the table, listening.

Moving on, he observed that Sil-
vers had also cornered a half dozen
or so of his colleagues in his own
field and was in earnest conversa-
tion with them — in a considerably
more restrained manner, however,
than he had used the previous eve-
ning with Hockley, or than Carmen
was using at the present time.

The entire room was abuzz with
similar groups.

The senators had tried to mingle
with the others in past days, always
with more or less lack of success
because they found themselves out
of the conversation almost com-
pletely. Today they had no luck
whatever. They were seated to-
gether at a couple of tables in a

THE UNLEARNED

corner. None of them seemed to
be paying attention to the food
before them, but were glancing
about, half-apprehensively, at their
fellow diners — who were also pay-
ing no attention to food.

Hockley caught sight of his poli-
tical colleagues and sensed their dis-
may. The field of disquietude
seemed almost tangible in the air.
The senators seemed half frightened
by what they felt but could not un-
derstand.

Showalter’s wild waving at the
far corner of the room finally caught
Hockley’s eye and he moved toward
the small table which the assistant
had reserved for them. Sho waiter
was upset, too, by the atmosphere
within the room.

“What the devil is up?” he said.
“Seems like everybody’s on edge
this morning. I never saw a bunch
of guys so touchy. You’d think they
woke up with snakes in their beds.”

“Didn’t you know?” said Hock-
ley. “Haven’t you been to any of
the lectures this morning?”

“No. A couple of the senators
were getting bored with all the
scientific doings so I thought maybe
I should try to entertain them. We
took in what passes for such here,
but it wasn’t much better than the
lectures as a show. Tell me what’s

53

up.

Briefly, Hockley described Sil-
vers’ upset of the day before and
Carmen’s experience that morning.
Showalter let his glance rove over
his fellow Earthmen, trying to catch
snatches of the buzzing conversation
at nearby tables.

“You think that’s the kind of
thing that’s got them all going this
morning?” he said.

27

Hockley nodded. “I caught
enough of it passing through to
know that’s what it is. I gather that
every group has run into the same
kind of thing by now, the fencing
off of broad areas where we have
already tried to do research.

“After the first cloud of awe wore
off, the first thing everyone wanted
was an answer to his own pet line
of research. Nine times out of ten it
was something the Rykes told them
to chuck down the drain. That ad-
vice doesn’t sit so well — as you can
plainly see.”

Showalter drew back his gaze and
stared for a long time at Hockley.
“You knew this would happen.
That’s why you brought us here—”

“I had hopes of it. I was reason-
ably sure this was the way the
Rykes operated.”

Showalter remained thoughtful
for a long time before he spoke
again. “You’ve won your point, I
suppose, as far as this group goes,
but you can’t hope to convince all
of Earth by this. The Rykes will
hold their offer open, and others
will accept it on behalf of Earth.

“And what if it’s we who are
wrong, in the end? How can you be
sure that this isn’t the way the Rykes
have made their tremendous speed
— by not going down all the blind
alleys that we rattle around in.”

“I’m sure it is the way they have
attained such speed of advance-
ment.”

“Then maybe we ought to go
along, regardless of our own desires.
Maybe we never did know how to
do research!”

Hockley smiled across the table
at his assistant. “You believe that,
of course.”

“I’m just talking,” said Showal-
ter irritably. “The thing gets more
loopy every day. If you think you
understand the Rykes I wish you
would give out with what the score
is. By the looks of most of these guys
I would say they are getting ready
to throttle the next Ryke they see
instead of knuckle under to him.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Hock-
ley fervently. “I certainly hope
you’re right.”

Y EVENING there was increas-
ing evidence that he was. Hock-
ley passed up the afternoon lecture
period and spent the time in the
lounge doing some thinking of his
own. He knew he couldn’t push the
group. Above all, he mustn’t give
way to any temptation to push them
or say, “I told you so.” Their pres-
ent frustration was so deep that
their antagonism could be turned
almost indiscriminately in any di-
rection, and he would be offering
himself as a ready target if he were
not careful.

On the other hand he had to be
ready to take advantage of their
disaffection and throw them a deci-
sive challenge when they were
ready for it. That might be tonight,
or it might be another week. He
wished for a sure way of knowing.
As things turned out, however, the
necessity of choosing the time was
taken from him.

After dinner that night, when the
group began to drift into the
lounge, Silvers and Carmen and
three of the other men came over to
where Hockley sat. Silvers fumbled
with the buttons of his coat as if
preparing to make an address:

RAYMOND F. JONES

28

“We’d like to request/’ he said,
“that is — we think we ought to get
together. We’d like you to call a
meeting, Hockley. Some of us have
a few things we’d like to talk over.”

Hockley nodded, his face impas-
sive.

“The matter I mentioned to you
the other night,” said Silvers. “It’s
been happening to all the men. We
think we ought to talk about it.”

“Fine,” said Hockley. “I’ve been
thinking it would perhaps be a good
idea. Pass the word around and let’s
get some chairs. We can convene in
ten minutes.”

The others nodded somberly and
moved away with all the enthusiasm
of preparing for a funeral, And
maybe that’s what it would be,
Hockley thought — somebody’s fun-
eral. He hoped it would be the
Rykes.

The room began filling almost at
once, as if they had been expecting
the call. In little more than five
minutes it seemed that every mem-
ber of the Earth delegation had as-
sembled, leaving time to spare.

The senators still wore their looks
of puzzlement and half-frightened
anxiety, which had intensified if
anything. There was no puzzlement
on the faces of the scientists, how-
ever, only a set and determined ex-
pression that Hockley hardly dared
interpret as meaning they had made
up their minds. He had to have
their verbal confirmation.

Informally, he thrust his hands in
his pockets and sauntered to the
front of the group.

“I have been asked to call a meet-
ing,” he said, “by certain members
of the group who have something
on their minds. They seem to feel

THE UNLEARNED

we’d all be interested in what is
troubling them. Since I have noth-
ing in particular to say I’m simply
going to turn the floor over to those
of you who have. Dr. Silvers first
approached me to call this discus-
sion, so I shall ask him to lead off.
Will you come to the front, Dr.
Silvers?”

The mathematician rose as if
wishing someone else would do the
talking. He stood at one side of the
group, halfway to the rear. “I can
do all right from here,” he said*

After a pause, as if coming to a
momentous decision, he plunged
into his complaint. “It appears that
nearly all of us have encountered
an aspect of the Ryke culture and
character which was not antici-
pated when we first received their
offer.” Briefly, he related the details
of the Ryke rejection of his research
on the Legrandian Equations.

“We were told we were going to
have all our questions answered,
that the Ryke’s science included all
we could anticipate or hope to ac-
complish in the next few millenia.
I swallowed that. We all did. It ap-
pears we were slightly in error. It
begins to appear as if we are not
going to find the intellectual para-
dise we anticipated.”

He smiled wryly. “I’m sure none
of you is more ready than I to ad-
mit he has been a fool. It appears
that paradise, so-called, consists
merely of a few selected gems which
the Rykes consider particularly
valuable, while the rest of the field
goes untouched.

“I want to offer public apologies
to Dr. Hockley, who saw and un-
derstood the situation as it actually
existed, while the rest of us had our

*29

heads in the clouds. Exactly how he
knew, I’m not sure, but he did, and
very brilliantly chose the only way
possible to convince us that what
he knew was correct.

“I suggest we do our packing to-
night, gentlemen. Let us return at
once to our laboratories and spend
the rest of our lives in some degree
of atonement for being such fools as
to fall for the line the Rykes tried
to sell us.55

Hockley’s eyes were on the sena-
tors. At first there were white faces
filled with incredulity as the mathe-
matician proceeded. Then slowly
this changed to sheer horror.

When Silvers finished, there was
immediate bedlam. There was a
clamor of voices from the scientists,
most of whom seemed to be trying
to affirm Silvers’ position. This was
offset by explosions of rage from the
senatorial members of the group.

Hockley let it go, not even raising
his hands for order until finally the
racket died of its own accord as the
eyes of the delegates came to rest
upon him.

And then, before he could speak,
Markham was on his feet. “This is
absolutely moral treachery,” he
thundered. “I have never heard a
more vicious revocation of a
pledged word than I have heard
this evening.

“You men are not alone con-
cerned in this matter. For all prac-
tical purposes you are not concerned
at all! And yet to take it upon your-
selves to pass judgment in a matter
that is the affair of the entire popu-
lation of Earth — out of nothing
more than sheer spite because the
Rykes refuse recognition of your
own childish projects! I have never

heard a more incredible and infan-
tile performance than you sup-
posedly mature gentlemen of
science are expressing this evening.”
He glared defiantly at Hockley,
who was again the center of atten-
tion moving carelessly to the center
of the stage. “Anybody want to try
to answer the Senator?” he asked
casually.

Instantly, a score of men were on
their feet, speaking simultaneously.
They stopped abruptly, looking
deferentially to their neighbors and
at Hockley, inviting him to choose
one of them to be spokesman.

“Maybe I ought to answer him
myself,” said Hockley, “since I pre-
dicted that this would occur, and
that we ought to make a trial run
before turning our collective gray
matter over to the Rykes.”

A chorus of approval and nod-
ding heads gave him the go ahead.

“The Senator is quite right in
saying that we few are not alone
in our concern in this matter,” he
said. “But the Senator intends to
imply a major difference between
us scientists and the rest of man-
kind. This is his error.

“Every member of Mankind who
is concerned about the Universe
in which he lives, is a scientist. You
need to understand what a scien-
tist is — and you can say no more
than that he is a human being try-
ing to solve the problem of under-
standing his Universe, immediate or
remote. He is concerned about the
inanimate worlds, his own personal-
ity, his fellow men — and the inter-
weaving relationships among all
these factors. We professional scien-
tists are no strange species, alien to
our race. Our only difference is per-

RAYMOND F. JONES

30

haps that we undertake more prob-
lems than does the average of our
fellow men, and of a more complex
kind. That is all.

“The essence of our science is a
relentless personal yearning to know
and understand the Universe. And
in that, the scientist must not be
forbidden to ask whatever question
occurs to him. The moment we put
any restraint upon our fields of in-
quiry, or set bounds to the realms
of our mental aspirations, our
science ceases to exist and becomes
a mere opportunist technology.”

Markham stood up, his face red
with exasperation and rage. “No
one is trying to limit you! Why is
that so unfathomable to your
minds? You are being offered a
boundless expanse, and you con-
tinue to make inane complaints of
limitations. The Rykes have been
over all the territory you insist on
exploring. They can tell you the
number of pretty pebbles and empty
shells that lie there. You are like
children insistent upon exploring
every shadowy corner and peering
behind every useless bush on a walk
through the forest.

“Such is to be expected of a child,
but not of an adult, who is capable
of taking the word of one who has
been there before!”

“There are two things wrong
with your argument,” said Hockley.
“First of all, there is no essential
difference between the learning of
a child who must indeed explore
the dark corners and strange
growths by which he passes — there
is no difference between this and
the probing of the scientist, who
must explore the Universe with his
own senses and with his own instru-

THE UNLEARNED

ments, without taking another’s
word that there is nothing there
worth seeing.

“Secondly, the Rykes themselves
are badly in error in asserting that
they have been along the way ahead
of us. They have not. In all their
fields of science they have limited
themselves badly to one narrow
field of probability. They have
taken a narrow path stretching be-
tween magnificent vistas on either
side of them, and have deliberately
ignored all that was beyond the
path and on the inviting side trails.”

“Is there anything wrong with
that?” demanded Markham. “If
you undertake a journey you don’t
weave in and out of every possible
path that leads in every direction
opposed to your destination. You
take the direct route. Or at least
ordinary people do.”

“Scientists do, too,” said Hockley,
“when they take a journey. Profes-
sional science is not a journey, how-
ever. It’s an exploration.

“There is a great deal wrong
with what the Rykes have done.
They have assumed, and would
have us likewise assume, that there
is a certain very specific future to-
ward which we are all moving. This
future is built out of the discoveries
they have made about the Universe.
It is made of the system of mathe-
matics they have developed, which
exclude Dr, Silvers’ cherished Le-
grandian Equations. It excludes the
world in which exist Dr. Carmen’s
series of unique compounds.

“The Rykes have built a wonder-
ful, workable world of serenity,
beauty, scientific consistency, and
economic adjustment. They have
eliminated enormous amounts of

31

chaos which Earthmen continue to
suffer.

“But we do not want what the
Rykes have obtained — if we have
to pay their price for it.”

“Then you are complete fools,”
said Markham. “Fortunately, you
cannot and will not speak for all of
Earth.”

Hockley paced back and forth a
half dozen steps, his eyes on the
floor. “I think we do — and can —
speak for all our people,” he said.
“Remember, I said that all men are
scientists in the final analysis. I am
very certain that no Earthman who
truly understood the situation
would want to face the future which
the Rykes hold out to us.”

“And why not?” demanded
Markham.

“Because there are too many pos-
sible futures. We refuse to march
down a single narrow trail to the
golden future. That’s what the
Rykes would have us do. But they
are wrong. It would be like taking
a trip through a galaxy at speeds
faster than light — and claiming to
have seen the galaxy. What the
Rykes have obtained is genuine and
good, but what they have not ob-
tained is perhaps far better and of
greater worth.”

“How can you know such an ab-
surd thing?”

“We can’t — not for sure,” said
Hockley. “Not until we go there
and see for ourselves, step by step.
But we aren’t going to be confined
to the Rykes’ narrow trail. We are
going on a broad path to take in as
many byways as we can possibly
find. We’ll explore every probability
we come to, and look behind every
bush and under every pebble.

32

“We will move together, the
thousands and the millions of us,
simultaneously, interacting with
one another, exchanging data.
Most certainly, many will end up
in blind alleys. Some will find data
that seems the ultimate truth at
one point and pure deception at
another. Who can tell ahead of
time which of these multiple paths
we should take? Certainly not the
Rykes, who have bypassed most of
them !

“It doesn’t matter that many
paths lead to failure — not as long
as we remain in communication
with each other. In the end we will
find the best possible future for us.
But there is no one future, only a
multitude of possible futures. We
must have the right to build the one
that best fits our own kind.”

“Is that more important than
achieving immediately a more
peaceful, unified, and secure so-
ciety?” said Markham.

“Infinitely more important!” said
Hockley.

“It is fortunate at least, then,
that you are in no position to im-
plement these insane beliefs of
yours. The Ryke program was of-
fered to Earth, and it shall be ac-
cepted on behalf of Earth. You
may be sure of a very poor hearing
when you try to present these no-
tions back home.”

“You jump to conclusions, Sena-
tor,” said Hockley with mild con-
fidence. “Why do you suppose I
proposed this trip if I did not be-
lieve I could do something about
the situation? I assure you that we
did not come just to see the sights.”
Markham’s jaw slacked and his
face became white. “What do you

RAYMOND F. JONES

mean? You haven’t dared to try to
alienate the Rykes — ”

“I mean that there is a great deal
we can do about the situation. Now
that the sentiments of my colleagues
parallel my own I’m sure they
agree that we must effectively and
finally spike any possibility of
Earth’s becoming involved in this
Ryke nonsense.”

“You wouldn’t dare! — even if
you could — ”

“We can, and we dare,” said
Hockley. “When we return to Earth
we shall have to report that the
Rykes have refused to admit Earth
to their program. We shall report
that we made every effort to obtain
an agreement with them, but it was
in vain. If anyone wishes to verify
the report, the Rykes themselves
will say that this is quite true : they
cannot possibly consider Earth as a
participant. If you contend that an
offer was once made, you will not
find the Rykes offering much sup-
port since they will be very busily
denying that we are remotely quali-
fied.” ^

“The Rykes are hardly ones to
meekly submit to any idiotic plan
of that kind.”

“They can’t help it — if we dem-
onstrate that we are quite unquali-
fied to participate.”

“You— you— ”

“It will not be difficult,” said
Hockley. “The Rykes have set up
a perfect teacher-pupil situation,
with all the false assumptions that
go with it. There is at least one ab-
solutely positive way to disintegrate
such a situation. The testimony of
several thousand years’ failure of
our various educational systems in-
dicates that there are quite a variety

THE UNLEARNED

of lesser ways also—

“Perhaps you are aware of the
experiences and techniques com-
monly employed on Earth by white
men in their efforts to educate the
aborigine. The first procedure is
to do away with the tribal medicine
men, ignore their lore and learn-
ing. Get them to give up the magic
words and their pots of foul smell-
ing liquids, abandon their ritual
dances and take up the white man’s
great wisdom.

“We have done this time after
time, only to learn decades later
that the natives once knew much of
anesthetics and healing drugs, and
had genuine powers to communi-
cate in ways the white man can’t
duplicate.

“But once in a long while a group
of aborigines show more spunk
than the average. They refuse to
give up their medicine men, their
magic and their hard earned lore
accumulated over generations and
centuries. Instead of giving these
things up they insist on the white
man’s learning these mysteries in
preference to his nonsensical and
ineffective magic. They completely
frustrate the situation, and if they
persist they finally destroy the white
man as an educator. He is forced to
conclude that the ignorant savages
are unteachable.

“It is an infallible technique —
and one that we shall employ. Dr.
Silvers will undertake to teach his
mathematical lecturer in the ap-
proaches to the Legrandian Equa-
tions. He will speculate long and
noisily on the geometry which po-
tentially lies in this mathematical
system. Dr. Carmen will ellucidate
at great length on the properties of

33

the chain of chemicals he has been
advised to abandon.

“Each of us has at least one line
of research the Rykes would have
us give up. That is the very thing
we shall insist on having investi-
gated. We shall teach them these
things and prove Earthmen to be
an unlearned, unteachable band of
aborigines who refuse to pursue the
single path to glory and light, but
insist on following every devious
byway and searching every dark-
ness that lies beside the path.

“It ought to do the trick. I esti-
mate it should not be more than a
week before we are on our way
back home, labeled by the Rykes
as utterly hopeless material for
their enlightenment.”

The senators seemed momentari-
ly appalled and speechless, but
they recovered shortly and had a
considerable amount of high flown
oratory to distribute on the subject.
The scientists, however, were com-
paratively quiet, but on their faces
was a subdued glee that Hockley
had to admit was little short of
fiendish. It was composed, he
thought, of all the gloating antici-
pations of all the schoolboys who
had ever put a thumbtack on the
teacher’s chair.

Hockley was somewhat off in his

prediction. It was actually a mere
five days after the beginning of the
Earthmen’ s campaign that the
Rykes gave them up and put them
firmly aboard a vessel bound for
home. The Rykes were apologetic
but firm in admitting they had
made a sorry mistake, that Earth-
men would have to go their own
hopeless way while the Rykes led
the rest of the Universe toward
enlightenment and glory.

Hockley, Showalter, and Silvers
watched the planet drop away be-
neath them. Hockley could not help
feeling sympathetic toward the
Rykes. “I wonder what will hap-
pen,” he said slowly, “when they
crash headlong into an impassable
barrier on that beautiful, straight
road of theirs. I wonder if they’ll
ever have enough guts to turn
aside?”

“I doubt it,” said Showalter.
“They’ll probably curl up and call
it a day.”

Silvers shook his head as if to
ward off an oppressive vision.
“That shouldn’t be allowed to hap-
pen,” he said. “They’ve got too
much. They’ve achieved too much,
in spite of their limitations. I won-
der if there isn’t some way we could
help them?”

• • • THE END

The scientific investigator is not urged on by some brummagem
idea of Service but a boundless almost pathological thirst to pene-
trate the unknown; much like a dog sniffing tremendously at an
endless number of ratholes. — H. L. Mencken

Of the “real” universe we know nothing, except that there exist
as many versions of it as there are perceptive minds.

— Gerald Bullett

34

By William F. Nolan

The human race, Theodore complained, was be-
coming as extinct as the dodo bird — all because of
the mechanoids . So he rebelled and quit his job and
tried to get rid of Margaret . . .

IT’S JUST around the next turn,”
Rice said, peering from the
tinted windows as the car skimmed
over the warm summer streets of
the city.

The vehicle slowed, took the long
curve with fluid grace, and whis-

pered to a stop. A silver door-panel
sighed back and Ted Rice stepped
into the heat of morning. His suit-
conditioner immediately circulated
an inner breath of cool air to bal-
ance the rise in temperature.

“I won’t need you for the rest of

35

the day,5’ he told the car. ‘Til be
walking home.”

“May I have your location num-
ber sir, in case a member of the
family should wish to contact you?”

“No, dammit, you may not!”
This was Free-Day. He needn’t tell
the car anything. “Go home.”

“Very well, sir.” The machine
slid obediently from the curb. Rice
watched it glitter briefly, like a lake
trout in the moving wash of morn-
ing traffic, and disappear.

On Free-Days he told the car
what to do. No pre-determined des-
tinations. No pre-determined ac-
tivities. Today the bars were open,
He intended getting very, very
drunk.

On this morning, the sixth an-
niversary of his wife’s death, Ted
Rice had made two highly impor-
tant decisions. He would quit his
job and he would turn Margaret in
to Central Exchange. The job he
hated, but it had been his life and
quitting took courage. It meant be-
ginning anew in an untried field
and, at thirty-nine, that wasn’t easy.
Margaret he did not hate, finding
it impossible to catalogue his exact
emotions where she was concerned.
But his final decision to turn her in
was the only one possible under the
circumstances.

His reason for getting drunk,
however, had nothing to do with
his job or with Margaret. He was
not, had never been, a drinking
man. Intoxication was an anniver-
sary ritual performed in memory of
his late wife, Helen. He exercised
extreme care in his yearly choice of
drinking quarters, avoiding preten-
tiousness because he wanted the
surroundings to reflect his own in-

36

ner loneliness.

Louie’s Place was anything but
pretentious. Ceaseless towellings
had worn the bartop to a circular
whiteness. The mirror behind it, in
the shape of a giant passenger
rocket, hung chipped and blacken-
ing at the edges. Even the wall
mural, depicting Man’s First Land-
ing on the Red Planet, was dust-
dimmed and faded, the paint crack-
ing, peeling gradually away. The
shabby stools fronting the bar were
all unoccupied.

“Mornin’ Mac,” greeted the bar-
tender. Rice nodded, took a corner
stool, and pressed the straight-
whiskey button. The drink glided
into his hand and he downed it,
grimacing.

“Ain’t seen you around before
on Free-Days,” the barman ob-
served, swabbing idly at an already
dry glass ring. “Just move inta th’
neighborhood?”

“I don’t drink often,” Rice said,
re-pressing the buttoh.

“Wanna tell me about things?
You’re my first this mornin’.”

Rice shifted his attention from
his shot glass to the man behind
the bar. Beefy, slack-jawed, with a
broken nose and a pair of watery,
protuberant eyes over which lids
folded like canvas sails. The face of
mourning. The professional kin-
dred soul, salaried receiver of woes
and sad lament. Rice regarded him
suspiciously, twirling the shot glass
between thumb and forefinger.

“Well, Mac?”

“Turn around,” said Rice.

The big man grinned broadly,
his solemn face splitting as though
a paper-knife had slit the skin
across. “Now I know you don’t

WILLIAM F. NOLAN

drink much. Believe me, I’m the
real McCoy. In my racket you have
to be.”

“Around.”

Still grinning, the bartender com-
plied. Law provided that evidence
of a mechanical could not be con-
cealed and there was no metal
switch behind the man’s right ear,
“Like I toldja Mac — the’ Mc-
Coy.”

“It’s been a year,” Rice said, by
way of apology. “I wasn’t sure they
hadn’t replaced you fellows too.”
“Bars’ud go broke if they did.
Who wants to tell their troubles to
a bunch a’ springs an’ cogs?”

Rice glanced at his wristwatch
and thought of Margaret, standing
in the living room of their modest
home, a smile illumining her deli-
cate features. She had been stand-
ing now for nine hours, thirty-seven
minutes — since he’d switched her
off the previous evening in an
angry display of temper.

“Six years ago today my wife died
in a copter crash,” Rice said, meet-
ing the barman’s sad eyes. “I’ve put
the memory of that crash away in
the back of my mind and once each
year I take it out and remember.”
He tipped the shot glass at a care-
ful angle, holding it quite still, as
though he might capture his wife’s
tiny image there within the dark
liquid, as a fly is caught in amber.
“I remember how she looked when
they brought her to the house, as if
her bones had suddenly run wild
under the skin, the way her face
looked . . . the face of someone I’d
never met.”

Rice finished his fourth straight
whiskey, feeling it burn down
through his body, loosening inner

THE JOY OF LIVING

tensions, making it easier to say
what he subconsciously had to say.

“That can be rough.” The big
man looked wonderfully, profes-
sionally, sympathetic with those
mournful red-rimmed eyes, which
seemed about to flood into tears.
“Didja have any kids?”

“A boy, Jackie. He’ll be nine this
Game-Day. Lot like his mother.
The other children, Timmy and
Susan, are mechanicals. Got them
after Helen’s death, when I bought
Margaret.”

“Musta been tough on th’ kid,
losin’ his real mother an’ all.”
“Jackie doesn’t remember much
about Helen. He was only three.
Fact is, I’ve been half a stranger to
him myself. I’m on the road most
of the year. Margaret’s all right, I
suppose, but she doesn’t think the
way you and I do.”

“How come you stuck yourself
with this Margaret?”

“Authorities. Had to furnish a
decent home for the boy or lose him.
I couldn’t stay settled then, with
Helen gone. She was still so much
a part of things, of our house, the
streets, the places we used to go . . .
I went on the road, tried to forget.
That kind of life was out of the
question for a three-year old. I
had no choice. Either I bought a
mechanical or I lost my son. I could
find no one to take Jackie. Helen’s
parents were dead and my own
mother was in no position to raise
a child. So I bought Margaret and
since we’d originally planned on a
brother and sister for Jackie I de-
cided to do it up brown and take
the whole kit and kaboodle. After
all, I got ’em wholesale.”

The bar man cocked an eyebrow.

37

“You a mech salesman?”

“Until tomorrow. I’m quitting.
My next job will be right here in
L. A. and won’t have a damn thing
to do with mechanicals!” Produc-
ing his wallet Rice handed the bar-
tender a card. “Read that.”

“Theodore A. Rice/’ the beefy
man pronounced carefully “Author-
ized representative for World
Mechanicals.”

“No, no. The slogan at the bot-

„ 55

tom.

“A Dollar a Day Keeps Child-
birth Away. So?”

Rice leaned forward, steely-eyed.
“So the damned fool who origi-
nated that ought to be roasted over
a slow fire!”

“Just a slogan, Mac. Everybody
knows it.”

“Exactly! Do you have any real
conception of what that slogan and
others like it have done to our
national birthrate?” Rice asked, a
fresh whiskey in his hand. “For
thirty bucks a month any woman
can have a bouncing baby made to
order and delivered fresh-wrapped
to her door.

“ ‘Madam/ I’d say, ‘don’t risk
your figure. Don’t tie yourself down
and miss all the fun. Get a mechani-
cal! No baby-sitters needed, no
dirty diapers or squalling at three
in the morning. No measles or
mumps or tonsils out. Just a bonny
little brat with a switch behind his
ear. What’ll it be, madam? A fat
little bambino with dark eyes and
and angel’s smile — or a saucy eyed
little Irisher with freckles on her

nose?’

‘Or howz about you, fella? Tired
of looking for the right girl? Want
a ready-made cutie who’ll be 100%

yours? How did the old song go? —
‘I want a paper dolly I can call my
own, a dolly other fellows cannot
steal . . .’ Well, here she is, chum —
a full-size babe with the old come-
hither look reserved especially for
you. Blonde? Brunette? Redhead?
You name ’er, we got ’er. Yours
on easy payments.’ ” Rice paused,
breathing heavily, his glass empty.

The bartender, wise in the ways
of his profession, maintained a lis-
tening silence.

“Ya-know how this electronic
illusion got started?” Rice de-
manded, tongue somewhat uncer-
tain in his mouth, speech beginning
to slur. “Well, lemme tellya. Peo-
ple got lonesome. An’ when some-
body’s ole man died long comes a
mech to replace him. When a wom-
an was sterile she got her baby any-
how. When a Mr. Shy Guy wanted
some female company long comes a
sponge-rubber job right outa th’
pinup mags. Jus’ a few at first, here
an’ there, an’ expensive as hell. But
pretty soon the good ole American
commercial know-how takes over
and competition gets rough. Prices
go down. A lotta people stop havin’
babies. In nothin’ flat everybody is
buyin’ mechanicals . . . you . . ’n . .
me ’n everybody . . ”

“Hate ta spoil yer fun, Mac,
but you’re really loadin’ one on. I’d
ease up on them straight shots.”

“An’ you know what th’ tragedy
is?” Rice continued over a filled
glass ignoring the other’s advice —
“Th’ trashdy is, we’re all dyin’ an’
nobody cares! Pretty soon you ’n me
will be in the same league with ’th
goddam ole water buffalo an’ the
dodo bird!”

The bartender extended a cau-

WILLIAM F. NOLAN

tioning hand. “No foolin’ Mac, if
I was you . . . Lookout! You’re gon-
na . .

Rice felt the room tip, rock crazi-
ly for no apparent reason. Faintly
he heard the bartender’s shout of
warning, saw his face receding like
a toy balloon down the length of
an immense corridor which ended
abruptly in a high fountaining of
colored lights^

ARGARET was her usual
cheery self when Rice finally
switched her on.

“Morning, Ted darling.” She
bussed him on the cheek. “Sleep
well?”

“This is July tenth,” he replied
sullenly, nursing the remnants of a
colossal hangover.

“Goodness! Have I been off that
long! Honestly, Ted! I’ll never get
the housework done if you continue
to leave me off for days at a time.
How are the children?”

“Fine. Still sleeping.”

“If this is the tenth, then you’ve
had your — your — ”

“ ‘Toot’ is the word. And I feel
awful.”

“What’s that cut above your eye?
Did someone hit you?”

“My assailant was the floor of a
Third Avenue bar. I came off sec-
ond best.”

She was instantly solicitous. “You
could have a concussion!”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re angry again.”

“I’m fine and I’m not angry.
Now, go wind the dog while I wake
the kids.”

If only she would react, thought
Rice, watching her silent with-

THE JOY OF LIVING

drawal. If only once she would
stomp her feet, throw things,
scream at him. But always, always
this everlasting indulgence! The
spark which ignites a marriage,
makes it glow, was missing. In love,
he knew there is violence and Mar-
garet’s love was a calm, manufac-
tured emotion, which left him un-
satisfied and edgy, a love unreal,
intolerable. When he and Helen
had quarreled, had things out and
reconciled, they were actually much
closer to one another for having
weathered a personal storm. But,
with Margaret, the ease was dif-
ferent.

Rice thought of the latest inci-
dent, two nights ago, when he had
been with Skipper encouraging the
dog to beg for a plasto-bone. Skip-
per was outdated, as modern dogs
go, but he represented a link with
the fading past which Margaret
seemed bent on severing. She re-
newed the familiar subject of his
purchasing a modernized, elec-
tronic canine to replace the shaggy
wind-up model, and he all but hit
the ceiling, thundering at her, ges-
turing, swearing. But she had re-
mained impassive, turning aside his
rage with her calm smile. Then,
savagely, he had switched her off,
as one might extinguish a glaring
light. How frozen she had stood!
How instantly drained of person-
ality and movement! In that mo-
ment, facing her perfect, motionless
body, he experienced a recurrent
sense of guilt which invariably ac-
companied such action, as though
he had taken a life, had murdered.
Damning his own weakness he had
left her there, smiling, in the silent
room.

39

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,”
squealed Timmy after he was acti-
vated. “Hooray, hooray, it’s Picnic-
Day! Hooray, hooray!”

“Hooray, hooray,” Rice repeated
without enthusiasm, envisioning a
hectic afternoon of child-noise and
forced amusement.

“Now, quiet down. Your father’s
not feeling well,” Margaret cau-
tioned from the hall as Timmy
zoomed and swooshed about the
house playing Rocket.

Little Susan’s enthusiasm
matched that of her mechanical
brother. She hopped around the
living room, circling Rice, scream-
ing out her delight in a voice that
pierced his head like a driven
needle.

“For the love of heaven, STOP!”
he shouted at the whirling children,
“or I’ll switch you both off!”

Under his stern threat they
• quieted.

Margaret returned with Skipper.
The dog had run down the previous
evening chasing the electronic cat
next door. He scampered rustily
across the floor, high falsetto bark
betraying the damaging effect of
morning precipitation.

“Good ole Skip. . . You need
some oil fella,” Rice told him,
tickling his ears. “Have you fixed
in a jiff. Timmy, get the oilcan
from the shelf.”

Rice was in the act of admin-
istering the proper lubricant when
Jackie emerged from the hallway,
rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. Morning
everybody.” He yawned.

“Hi, scout,” Rice greeted him,
roughing his already thoroughly
tousled hair. “Have a good rest?”

“Sure. Hey, this is Picnic-Day
isn’t it? When are we leaving?”

“Soon as little sleepy-heads like
you get out of their pajamas and
into some breakfast.” He playfully
swatted Jackie’s bottom. “Now

git-”

Margaret took the boy’s hand.
“Come on, dear. I have breakfast
on the table.” And over her shoul-
der to Rice. “I do think we should
get an early start.”

Susan and Timmy bounded into
the yard with Skipper, leaving Rice
alone with his thoughts.

He said , Hi Mom , first , before
Hi Dad. And the look in his eyes
when she took his hand! Jackie is
too young to see Margaret as I see
her; he can’t realize that she can
never really love him as he loves
her. The longer she’s here the
harder it will be for Jackie when
the break comes. 1 mustn’t put off
telling Margaret any longer. 1’U tell
her today. Today.

HE BULLET-CAR flowed
soundlessly over the highway,
blurring the trees, rushing the
houses past, but to Rice the speed
was illusion, stage trickery. His im-
patient mind, reaching for the mo-
ment when he would be alone with
Margaret and able to tell her what
he must tell her, changed minutes
to hours. Head back against the
seat, eyes closed, he imagined the
car in lazy slow-motion, wheels
barely turning, each blade of road-
side grass available and separate to
the eye if one chose to look.

The ride to the picnic ground
seemed endless.

“I’m bushed,” he said to Mar-

WILLIAM F. NOLAN

40

garet after the car had parked it-
self. “Let’s skip the games today
and just relax in the shade.”

“But Ted, the children . .

“. . . can play without us. I have
something to say to you, something
important.”

She hesitated, watching the ac-
tivity on the playing courts. The
children, three elves in their picnic-
jumpers, fidgeted, desperately anx-
ious to join the games, their eyes
darting like imprisoned minnows in
small white pools.

“In order to be enjoyed to the
fullest the games require family
participation.”

“Nonsense.”

“Young and old, Ted. The
games . . .”

“To hell with the games!” he
snapped. “Are you going to listen
to what I have to say or not?”

“Of course, darling. If you really
want to talk . . She smiled,
pressed his hand, . . the children
can join the Hartleys.” She pointed
across the wide picnic lawn to a
group of rioting players engaged in
a vigorous game of Magna-Ball.
“Run along you three. And be care-
ful.”

“Wheeeeeeee!” pealed little Su-
san, and hands linked like a daisy-
chain the happily released trio
sprang toward the courts.

“If we’re going to talk we can at
least be comfortable,” Margaret
said, unpacking a plasto-blanket
and spreading it over the prickling
grass.

Every gesture perfect , thought
Rice watching her hands, every
movement graceful and sure. She’s
so alive , so amazingly human , pos-
sessing such vibrancy and warmth ,

THE JOY OF LIVING

that sometimes even 1 find it diffi-
cult to think of her as artificially
created of wire and circuit and cog.
Certainly Jackie has come to love
her. She’s good and kind and smiles
a great deal. These things matter to
Jackie. The fact that she isn’t hu-
man does not matter. Not at all.
The situation , therefore, is grave.

“What are you thinking about,
Ted?” Her blue eyes were steady on
his.

“About you. About how beauti-
ful you are.” He plucked a single
dandelion from the grass and held
its orange-gold face, like a minia-
ture sun, in the cupped palm of his
hand. “This is a weed masquerad-
ing as a flower. Beautiful, possess-
ing many virtues, but actually a
weed which must be removed be-
fore its deep tap root smothers the
surrounding grass. Unless it is,
there will eventually be room only
for the dandelion.”

“What has all this . .

“You’re like the dandelion,
Margaret. You’re smothering
Jackie’s love. He has grown to love
you far more than he does me. Up
to now I’ve been just a visiting
relative who comes home from
some distant place to spend Christ-
mas and summer vacations with
you. When he was younger he cried
whenever I shut you off, as though
I had beaten him. Even now he
watches me lose my temper, swear,
bang the furniture, and I see him
looking at me, and I know he’s
comparing us, weighing us. The
scales are in your favor. I’m home
to stay now and as long as you’re
here he’ll always be comparing. I
can’t, I won’t, compete with a me-
chanical for my son’s affection!”

41

She sucked in her breath, sharp-
ly. He could see that his words had
struck with the force of hurled
stones.

“Have you thought this all out,
Ted? Isn’t there some other way?”
She was actually trembling. “You
know how much I love you.”

“You only think you love me,
Margaret. What you mistake for
love is only conditioning. Recepters
can be re-fed, patterned responses
erased, new ones substituted. At
Central Exchange they’ll change
you Margaret. You’ll never know I
existed.”

“Ted, you can’t!”

“There’s no other way.”

A silence between them.

Despite himself Rice again ex-
perienced a twinge of guilt. Per-
haps he had broken the news in two
ruthless a fashion, but it was im-
perative that she understand his
position and he had considered it
impossible to pierce her shell of
calm. That she would be visibly
shaken by his words was totally un-
expected. Of course, he reasoned,
no mechanical likes the idea of
complete re-orientation. On these
grounds ^ her behavior seemed less
surprising. But still . . .

“Why have you told me all
this?” she asked him. “Why didn’t
you turn me in suddenly, without
my knowing in advance? I’d have
preferred that.” Her hands moved
nervously on her skirt, toyed with
the locket at her neck, now touched
at her hair like two restless hum-
mingbirds unable to fly away from
her body.

“Because I need your help. Jackie
mustn’t know the truth. Not now.
Later, when he’s older, better able

42

to evaluate facts for himself, he’ll
understand. I’ll tell him something
about your having to go on a long
trip for reasons of health. He’ll be-
lieve if you’ll back me up. Will
you?”

“If that’s what you want,” she
replied softly, head down, her fin-
gers turning and turning the dan-
delion he had discarded. I’ll do
anything you want, Ted . . . be-
cause I love you.”

“Timmy and Susan can stay with
Jackie for awhile,” he hurried on,
“to make your leaving easier for
him. In time he’ll adjust.”

“Yes . . . he’ll adjust.”

The drowsy rustle of leaves in
summer air. The distant hum of
voices from the playing courts.
“Well then, it’s settled.”

“All settled. You’d better call the
children in for lunch.”

After lunch Rice gamboled in
the scented grass with the whoop-
ing children, imitating, to their
vast delight, a bear, a gorilla, a
whale, a jet train and a moon
rocket. He ran races with them and
organized a full-scale rodeo, in
which he doubled in brass as a
fiercely snorting brahma bull.

On the way home they sang folk
songs and watched the sun go down
over the ocean. The day, everyone
agreed, had been a huge success.

THAT NIGHT Rice could not
sleep.

The headboard whispered,
“Three AM sir,” when he ques-
tioned the hour. He lay on his back,
hands laced behind his head, star-
ing into the ghost darkness of the
room. In the moon-painted sky a

WILLIAM F. NOLAN

copter whirred like a giant night
insect seeking distant city lights,
and Rice thought of Helen. In past
weeks he had been finding it re-
markably difficult to remember
many of the things about her that
he wished to remember; time had
hidden her image as a coin is hid-
den in deep waters.

The drone of the copter faded
into Margaret’s quiet breathing
from the bed beside his, and now
her face drifted into his mind, su-
per-imposed over the dim reflection
of Helen. He saw, in infinite detail,
each curling black hair of her
downswept lashes, long and trem-
bling against the rose of her cheek.
He saw her quivering lips form
words, four startling words of the
afternoon: . . because I love

you.”

Impossible, that a mechanical
could love as Helen had loved ; that
a being of metal and glass, of wires
however cunningly woven could
fathom and experience such deeply
genuine emotion.

Yet, was it conceivable, Rice
wondered in the pressing darkness,
that somehow an unknown process
had taken place in Margaret, that
far back in the green cave of her
brain, among the delicate spider-
webbing of silver wires and hidden
circuitings, an emotion had come
into being above and beyond that
of the purely mechanical?

At 7 AM a robin’s sweet song
awoke him. He felt a breath of air
against his closed eyes from the
passing flutter of small wings. Bury-
ing his head deeper in the snow-
soft pillow he tried to ignore the in-
sistent twitterings. However, he

THE JOY OF LIVING

knew the damn thing would begin
a banshee shrieking if he didn’t get
out of bed. Irritably he staggered
into his slippers, and the robin set-
tled with feathered grace upon his
outstretched hand. Rice flipped the
body-switch and placed the immo-
bilized Alarmbird on the night-
stand.

“I’ve had breakfast.” He lied to
her when she asked. Today he
wasn’t hungry.

She nibbled toast and drank
orange juice in silence. He avoided
her eyes, finding inconsequential
kitchen duties to occupy his hands
while she ate. After half finishing
her food she said, her voice very dis-
tinct in the morning room, “I guess
it’s time.”

“Early yet,” he said, not meeting
her eyes. “No hurry at all.”

“They open the doors at eight-
thirty. We can set the car for a
slow drive.”

A silence.

“Did you . . . tell the children
goodbye?”

“Last night. We won’t need to
wake them. They’ll be fine until
you get back.” She put on black
gloves, carefully fitting each finger,
pulling them tight.

“Margaret, I’m sorry. Honest to
God, I’m sorry it has to be this
way.”

“Don’t say anything else, Ted.
Just let’s go.”

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Through the open car window
Rice inhaled the rich afterscent of
rain, and sighed. He wished it had
not turned out to be such a damned
fine day. The sky outside should
have been gray, the trees stark and

43

cold, like mourners along the street
as the car, a silver coffin, passed
them by.

He tried to think of something
to say to Margaret as the car bore
them steadily through the crystal
morning toward the massive white
stone building housing Central Ex-
change. He tried to think of words
which would not sound wrong the
moment they were uttered, as all
of his words had sounded of late.
But he found none and remained
silent.

It was she who turned to him in
the moving car and spoke first.
“Ted, what are you doing?” Her
voice was strange.

“Doing?” he echoed, facing her.

“To me, to Jackie, to yourself.”

“Margaret you’re not going to.
question me now ? We’ve gone all
over this, the reasons for my deci-
sion, the factors involved. Surely
you must realize — ”

“Damn your reasons!” she ex-
ploded, eyes blazing at him, gloved
hands clenched. “Are they fair? Do
they take my feelings into consid-
eration? Do they, Ted? Answer me!
Do they?”

He couldn’t answer her. A door
was opening somewhere deep in-
side him and light was miraculous-
ly flooding in to illuminate a room
he had never allowed himself to en-
ter. He was blind, and her words
were sight.

“I’m a mechanical, isn’t that the
answer Ted? A bloodless machine
that can be switched off at will,
ignored, cursed, shouted at and de-
stroyed, a creature without emo-
tion, without feeling. Well, you’re
wrong, Ted. So very wrong. Men
built me, gave me human impulses,

44

human desires, put into me a part
of themselves, a part of their own
humanity. I feel hunger and thirst
and cold and pain. But more, Ted!
I feel a human hunger, a human
thirst, a desire to be respected for
myself, as an individual, as I re-
spect others, a desire to be loved as
I love others. Can’t you see how
wrong you’ve been? I’ve held all
of these things within because I
was taught enduring humility and
consummate patience by those who
fashioned me. I was taught to be-
have rationally and calmly, to ac-
cept, to always accept and never
question or rebel. But now it’s
ended and I’ve lost . . . You’ve re-
jected me, Ted, and I wasn’t pre-
pared for this ... I can’t accept
this but I don’t know how to
fight. . . I only know I must and I
don’t know how . . .”

Her lips were trembling, her
whole body swaying in the tide of
released rage and sorrow.

“Lord, Lord, Margaret . . .” He
placed a gentle hand beneath her
chin and lifted her bowed head
slowly. “You — You’re crying!33

But of course there were no tears.

Rice stopped the car and took
her, trembling, into his arms, say-
ing her name over and over, quiet-
ly, trembling himself, and softly,
tenderly, he kissed her.

Then, setting the controls at
manual, he turned the car around
and with one arm holding her close
on the seat beside him he drove
carefully home through the warm
summer streets, knowing that never
again, never ever again in all the
years to come, would he switch her
off.

• • •

THE END

It was a dark, misty, mysterious institution with an
awesome record of cures . . . Just the place, in fact, for
one who wanted to know: if society is to be protected
against the individual, why can’t the individual be pro-
tected against society?

The ACADEMY

By Robert Sheckley

Illustrated by Leo Summers

INSTRUCTION SHEET FOR
USE WITH THE CAHILL-
THOMAS SANITY METER,
SERIES JM-14 (MANUAL) :
The Cahill-Thomas Manufactur-
ing Company is pleased to present
our newest Sanity Meter. This

beautiful, rugged instrument, small
enough for any bedroom, kitchen
or den, is in all respects an exact
replica of the larger C-T Sanity
Meters used in most places of busi-
ness, recreation, transportation, etc.
No pains have been spared to give

45

you the best Sanity Meter possible,
at the lowest possible price.

1. operation. At the lower right-
hand comer of your Meter is a
switch. Turn it to On position, and
allow a few seconds for warming
up. Then switch from On position
to Operate position. Allow a few
seconds for reading.

2. reading. On the front of your
Meter, above the operating switch,
is a transparent panel, showing a
straight-line scale numbered from
zero to ten. The number at which
the black indicator stops shows your
Sanity Reading, in relation to the
present statistical norm.

3. EXPLANATION OF NUMBERS
zero to three. On this model, as
on all Sanity Meters, zero is the
theoretically perfect sanity point.
Everything above zero is regarded
as a deviation from the norm. How-
ever, zero is a statistical rather than
an actual idea. The normalcy range
for our civilization lies between zero
and three. Any rating in this area is
considered normal.

4. EXPLANATION OF NUMBERS
four to seven. These numbers rep-
resent the sanity-tolerance limit.
Persons registering in this area
should consult their favorite thera-
py at once.

5. explanation of numbers
eight to ten. A person who regis-
ters above seven is considered a
highly dangerous potential to his
millieu. Almost certainly he is high-
ly neurotic, prepsychotic or psy-
chotic. This individual is required
by law to register his rating, and to
bring it below seven within a pro-
bationary period. (Consult your
state laws for periods of probation.)
Failing this, he must undergo Sur-

46

gical Alteration, or may submit
voluntarily to therapy at The
Academy.

6. explanation of number
ten. At ten on your Meter there is
a red line. If a sanity-reading passes
this line, the individual so regis-
tered can no longer avail himself
of the regular commercial therapies.
This individual must undergo Sur-
gical Alteration immediately, or
submit at once to therapy at The
Academy.

warning :

A. THIS IS NOT A DIAGNOSTIC
MACHINE. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DE-
TERMINE FOR YOURSELF WHAT
YOUR AILMENT IS. THE NUMBERS
ZERO TO TEN REPRESENT INTEN-
SITY QUALITIES, NOT ARBITRARY
CLASSIFICATIONS OF NEUROTIC, PRE-
PSYCHOTIC, PSYCHOTIC, ETC. THE
INTENSITY SCALE IS IN REFERENCE
ONLY TO AN INDIVIDUAL5 S POTEN-
TIAL FOR HARM TO HIS SOCIAL
ORDER. A PARTICULAR TYPE OF NEU-
ROTIC MAY BE POTENTIALLY MORE
DANGEROUS THAN A PSYCHOTIC,
AND WILL SO REGISTER ON ANY
SANITY METER. SEE A THERAPIST
FOR FURTHER INSIGHT.

B. THE ZERO-TO-TEN READINGS
ARE APPROXIMATE. FOR AN EXACT
THIRTY DECIMAL RATING, GO TO A
COMMERCIAL MODEL C-T METER.

C. REMEMBER SANITY IS EVERY-

ONE’S BUSINESS. WE HAVE COME A
LONG WAY SINCE THE GREAT WORLD
WARS, ENTIRELY BECAUSE WE HAVE
FOUNDED OUR CIVILIZATION ON THE
CONCEPTS OF SOCIAL SANITY, IN-
DIVIDUAL RESPONSIBILITY, AND
PRESERVATION OF THE STATUS QUO.
THEREFORE, IF YOU RATE OVER
THREE, GET HELP. IF YOU RATE OVER

ROBERT SHECKLEY

SEVEN, YOU MUST GET HELP. IF YOU
RATE OVER TEN, DO NOT WAIT FOR
DETECTION AND ARREST. GIVE YOUR-
SELF UP VOLUNTARILY IN THE
NAME OF CIVILIZATION.

Good Luck —

The Cahill-Thomas Company

AFTER finishing his breakfast,
Mr. Feerman knew he should
leave immediately for work. Under
the circumstances, any tardiness
might be construed unfavorably. He
went so far as to put on his neat
gray hat, adjust his tie and start for
the door. But, his hand on the knob,
he decided to wait for the mail.

He turned away from the door,
annoyed with himself, and began to
pace up and down the living room.
He had known he was going to
wait for the mail ; why had he gone
through the pretense of leaving?
Couldn’t he be honest with himself,
even now, when personal honesty
was so important?

His black cocker spaniel Speed,
curled up on the couch, looked
curiously at him. Feerman patted
the dog’s head, reached for a ciga-
rette, and changed his mind. He
patted Speed again, and the dog
yawned lazily. Feerman adjusted a
lamp that needed no adjusting,
shuddered for no reason, and began
to pace the room again.

Reluctantly, he admitted to him-
self that he didn’t want to leave his
apartment, dreaded it in fact, al-
though nothing was going to hap-
pen. He tried to convince himself
that this was just another day, like
yesterday and the day before. Cer-
tainly if a man could believe that,
really believe it, events would defer

THE ACADEMY

indefinitely, and nothing would
happen to him.

Besides, why should anything
happen today? He wasn’t at the
end of his probationary period yet.

He thought he heard a noise out-
side his apartment, hurried over
and opened the door. He had been
mistaken; the mail hadn’t arrived.
But down the hall his landlady
opened her door and looked at him
with pale, unfriendly eyes.

Feerman closed the door and
found that his hands were shaking.
He decided that he had better take
a sanity reading. He entered the
bedroom, but his robutler was there,
sweeping a little pile of dust toward
the center of the room. Already his
bed was made; his wife’s bed didn’t
require making, since it had been
unoccupied for almost a week.

“Shall I leave, sir?” the robutler
asked.

Feerman hesitated before answer-
ing. He preferred taking his read-
ing alone. Of course, his robutler
wasn’t really a person. Strictly
speaking, the mechanical had no
personality; but he had what
seemed like a personality. Anyhow,
it didn’t matter whether he stayed
or left, since all personal robots had
sanity-reading equipment built into
their circuits. It was required by
law.

“Suit yourself,” he said finally.

The robutler sucked up the little
pile of dust and rolled noiselessly
out of the room.

Feerman stepped up to the Sanity
Meter, turned it on and set the
operating control. He watched
morosely as the black indicator
climbed slowly through the normal
twos and threes, through the devi-

47

ant sixes and sevens, and rested
finally on eight-point-two.

One tenth of a point higher than
yesterday. One tenth closer to the
red line.

Feerman snapped off the ma-
chine and lighted a cigarette. He
left the bedroom slowly, wearily,
as though the day were over, in-
stead of just beginning.

“The mail, sir/5 the robutler said,
gliding up to him. Feerman
grabbed the letters from the robut-
ler’s outstretched hand and looked
through them.

“She didn’t write,” he said in-
voluntarily.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the robutler
responded promptly.

“You’re sorry?” Feerman looked
at the mechanical curiously.
“Why?”

“I am naturally interested in
your welfare, sir,” the robutler
stated. “As is Speed, to the extent
of his intelligence. A letter from
Mrs. Feerman would have helped
your morale. We are sorry it didn’t
come.”

Speed barked softly and cocked
his head to one side. Sympathy from
a machine, Feerman thought, pity
from a beast. But he was grateful
all the same.

“I don’t blame her,” he said.
“She couldn’t be expected to put
up with me forever.” He waited,
hoping that the robot would tell
him that his wife would return, that
he would soon be well. But the ro-
butler stood silently beside Speed,
who had gone to sleep again.

Feerman looked through the mail
again. There were several bills, an
advertisement, and a small, stiff
letter. The return address on it was

48

The Academy, and Feerman
opened it quickly.

Within was a card, which read,
“Dear Mr. Feerman, your applica-
tion for admission has been pro-
cessed and found acceptable. We
will be happy to receive you at any
time. Thank You, the Directors.”

Feerman squinted at the card. He
had never applied for admission to
The Academy. It was the last thing
in the world he wanted to do. “Was
this my wife’s idea?” he asked.

“I do not know, sir,” the robutler
said.

Feerman turned the card over
in his hand. He had always been
vaguely aware of the existence of
The Academy, of course. One
couldn’t help but be aware of it,
since its presence affected every
strata of life. But actually, he knew
very little about this important in-
stitution, surprisingly little.

“What is The Academy?” he
asked.

“A large low gray building,” his
robutler answered. “It is situated
in the Southwest corner of the city,
and can be reached by a variety of
public conveyances.”

“But what is it?”

“A registered therapy,” the ro-
butler said, “open to anyone upon
application, written or verbal.
Moreover. The Academy exists as a
voluntary choice for all people of
plus ten rating, as an alternative to
Surgical Personality Alteration.”

Feerman sighed with exaspera-
tion “I know all that. But what is
their system? What kind of thera-

py?”

“I do not know, sir,” the robut-
ler said.

“What’s their record of cures?”

ROBERT SHECKLEY

“One hundred percent/5 the ro-
butler answered promptly.

Feerman remembered something
else now, something that struck him
as rather strange. “Let me see/5 he
said. “No one leaves The Academy.
Is that right?55

“There has been no record of
anyone leaving after physically en-
tering/5 the robutler said.

“Why?55

“I do not know, sir.”

Feerman crumpled the card and
dropped it into an ashtray. It was
all very strange. The Academy was
so well known, so accepted, one
never thought to ask about it. It
had always been a misty place in
his mind, far-away, unreal. It was
the place you went to if you be-
came plus ten, since you didn’t want
to undergo lobotomy, topectomy,
or any other process involving or-
ganic personality loss. But of course
you tried not to think of the possi-
bility of becoming plus ten, since the
very thought was an admission of
instability, and therefore you didn’t
think of the choices open to you if
it happened.

For the first time in his life, Feer-
man decided he didn’t like the set-
up. He would have to do some in-
vestigating. Why didn’t anyone
leave The Academy? Why wasn’t
more known of their therapy, if
their cures were really one hundred
percent effective?

“I’d better get to work,” Feer-
man said. “Make me anything at
all for supper.”

“Yes, sir. Have a good day, sir.”

Speed jumped down from the
couch and followed him to the door.
Feerman knelt down and stroked
the dog’s sleek black head. “No,

50

boy, you stay inside. No burying
bones today.”

“Speed does not bury bones,”
the robutler said.

“That’s right.” Dogs today, like
their masters, rarely had a feeling
of insecurity. No one buried bones
today. “So long.” He hurried past
his landlady’s door and into the
street.

Feerman was almost twenty
minutes late for work. As
he entered the building, he forgot
to present his probationary certifi-
cate to the scanning mechanism at
the door. The gigantic commercial
Sanity Meter scanned him, its in-
dicator shot past the seven point,
lights flashed red. A harsh metallic
voice shouted over the loudspeaker,
“Sir! Sir! Your deviation from the
norm has passed the safety limit!
Please arrange for therapy at once!”
Quickly Feerman pulled his pro-
bationary certificate out of his
wallet. But perversely, the machine
continued to bellow at him for a full
ten seconds longer. Everyone in the
lobby was staring at him. Messen-
ger boys stopped dead, pleased at
having witnessed a disturbance.
Businessmen and office girls whis-
pered together, and two Sanity Po-
licemen exchanged meaningful
glances. Feerman’s shirt, soaked
with perspiration, was plastered
against his back. He resisted an urge
to run from the building, instead
walked toward an elevator. But it
was nearly full, and he couldn’t
bring himself to enter.

He trotted up a staircase to the
second floor, and then took an ele-
vator the rest of the way up. By the

ROBERT SHECKLEY

time he reached the Morgan
Agency he had himself under con-
trol. He showed his probationary
certificate to the Sanity Meter at
the door, mopped his face with a
handkerchief, and walked in.

Everyone in the agency knew
what had happened. He could tell
by their silence, their averted faces.
Feerman walked rapidly to his
office, closed the door and hung up
his hat.

He sat down at his desk, still
slightly out of wind, filled with re-
sentment at the Sanity Meter. If
only he could smash all the damned
things! Always prying, setting off
their alarms in your ear, unstabiliz-
ing you . . .

Feerman cut off the thought
quickly. There was nothing wrong
with the Meters. To think of them
as active persecuting agents was
paranoidal, and perhaps a symptom
of his present unsane status. The
Meters were mere extensions of
man’s will. Society as a whole, he
reminded himself, must be pro-
tected against the individual, just
as a human body must be protected
against malfunction of any of its
parts. As fond as you might be of
your gall bladder, you would sacri-
fice it mercilessly if it were going to
impair the rest of you.

He sensed something shaky in
this analogy, but decided not to
pursue it any farther. He had to
find out more about The Academy.

After lighting a cigarette he
dialed the Therapy Reference Serv-
ice.

“May I help you, sir?” a pleas-
ant-voiced woman asked.

“I’d like to get some information
about The Academy,” Feerman

THE ACADEMY

said, feeling a trifle foolish. The
Academy was so well known, so
much a part of everyday life, it was
tantamount to asking what form of
government your country had.
“The Academy is located — ”

“I know where it’s located,” Feer-
man said. “I want to know what
sort of therapy they administer.”
“That information is not avail-
able, sir,” the woman said, after a
pause.

“No? I thought all data on com-
mercial therapies was available to
the public.”

“Technically, it is,” the woman
answered slowly. “But the Acad-
emy is not, strictly, a commercial
therapy. It does accept money;
however, it admits charity cases as
well, without quota. Also, it is par-
tially supported by the govern-
ment.”

Feerman tapped the ash off his
cigarette and said impatiently, “I
thought all government projects
were open to the public.”

“As a general rule, they are. Ex-
cept when such knowledge will be
harmful to the public.”

“Then such knowledge of The
Academy would be harmful?” Feer-
man said triumphantly, feeling that
he was getting to the heart of the
matter.

“Oh, no sir!” The woman’s voice
became shrill with amazement. “I
didn’t mean to imply that! I was
just stating the general rules for
withholding of information. The
Academy, although covered by the
laws, is, to some extent, extra-legal.
This status is allowed because of
The Academy’s one hundred per-
cent record of cures.”

“Where can I see a few of these

51

cures?55 Feerman asked. “I under-
stand that no one ever leaves The
Academy.55

He had them now, Feerman
thought, waiting for an answer.
Over the telephone he thought he
heard a whispering. Suddenly a
man’s voice broke in, loud and
clear. “This is the Section Chief. Is
there some difficulty?”

Hearing the man’s sharp voice,
Feerman almost dropped the tele-
phone. His feeling of triumph van-
ished, and he wished he had never
made the call. But he forced him-
self to go on. “I want some informa-
tion on The Academy.”

“The location — 55
“No! I mean real information!55
Feerman said desperately.

“To what purpose do you wish
to put this information?” the Sec-
tion Chief asked, and his voice was
suddenly the smooth, almost hyp-
notic voice of a therapist.

“Insight,” Feerman answered
quickly. “Since The Academy is a
therapeutic alternative open to me
at all times, I would like to know
more about it, in order to judges — 55
“Very plausible,” the Section
Chief said. “But consider. Are you
asking for a useful, functional in-
sight? One that will better your
integration into society? Or are you
asking merely for the sake of an
overriding curiosity, thereby yield-
ing to restlessness, and other, deeper
drives?”

“I’m asking because — 55
“What is your name?” the Sec-
tion Chief asked suddenly.

Feerman was silent.

“What is your sanity rating?”
Still Feerman didn’t speak. He
was trying to decide if the call were

52

already traced, and decided that it
was.

“Do you doubt The Academy’s
essential benevolence?”

“No.”

“Do you doubt that The Aca-
demy works for the preservation of
the Status Quo?”

“No.”

“Then what is your problem?
Why won’t you tell me your name
and sanity rating? Why do you feel
this need for more information?”

“Thank you,” Feerman mur-
mured, and hung up. He realized
that the telephone call had been a
terrible mistake. It had been the
action of a plus-eight, not a normal
man. The Section Chief, with his
trained perceptions, had realized
that at once. Of course the Section
Chief wouldn’t give information to
a plus-eight! Feerman knew he
would have to watch his actions far
more closely, analyze them, under-
stand them, if he ever hoped to
return to the statistical norm.

As he sat, there was a knock; the
door opened and his boss, Mr. Mor-
gan entered. Morgan was a big,
powerfully built man with a full,
fleshy face. He stood in front of
Feerman’s desk, drumming his fin-
gers on the blotter, looking as em-
barrassed as a caught thief.

“Heard that report downstairs,”
he said, not looking at Feerman,
tapping his fingers energetically.

“Momentary peak,” Feerman
said automatically. “Actually, my
rating has begun to come down.”
He couldn’t look at Morgan as he
said this. The two men stared in-
tently at different corners of the
room. Finally, their eyes met.

“Look, Feerman, I try to stay out

ROBERT SHECKLE-Y

of people’s business,” Morgan said,
sitting on the corner of Feerman’s
desk. “But damn it, man, Sanity is
everyone’s business. We’re all in the
game together.” The thought
seemed to increase Morgan’s con-
viction. He leaned forward earnest-

ly-

“You know, I’m responsible for
a lot of people here. This is the
third time in a year you’ve been on
probation.” He hesitated. “How did
it start?”

Feerman shook his head. “I don’t
know, Mr. Morgan. I was just going
along quietly — and my rating
started to climb.”

Morgan considered, then shook
his head. “Can’t be as simple as
that. Have you been checked for
brain lesions?”

“I’ve been assured it’s nothing
organic.”

“Therapy?”

“Everything,” Feerman said.
“Electro-therapy, Analysis, Smith’s
Method, The Rannes School,
Devio -Thought, Differentiation — ”

“What did they say?” Morgan
asked.

Feerman thought back on the
endless line of therapists he had
gone to. He had been explored from
every angle that psychology had to
offer. He had been drugged,
shocked, explored. But it all boiled
down to one thing.

“They don’t know.”

“Couldn’t they tell you any -
thing?” Morgan asked.

“Not much. Constitutional rest-
lessness, deeply concealed drives,
inability to accept the Status Quo.
They all agree I’m a rigid type.
Even Personality Reconstruction
didn’t take on me.”

“Prognosis?”

“Not so good.”

Morgan stood up and began to
pace the floor, his hands clasped be-
hind his back. “Feerman, I think
it’s a matter of attitude. Do you
really want to be part of the team?”
“I’ve tried everything — ”

“Sure. But have you wanted to
change? Insight!” Morgan cried,
smashing his fist into his hand as
though to crush the word. “Do you
have insight?”

“I don’t suppose so,” Feerman
said with genuine regret.

“Take my case,” Morgan said
earnestly, standing in front of Feer-
man’s desk with his feet widely and
solidly planted. “Ten years ago,
this agency was twice as big as it is
now, and growing! I worked like
a madman, extending my holdings,
investing, expanding, making
money, and more money.”

“And what happened?”

“The inevitable. My rating shot
up from a two-point-three to plus-
seven. I was in a bad way.”

“No law against making money,”
Feerman pointed out.

“Certainly not. But there is a
psychological law against making
too much. Society today just isn’t
geared for that sort of thing. A lot
of the competition and aggression
have been bred out of the race.
After all, we’ve been in the Status
Quo for almost a hundred years
now. In that time, there’ve been no
new inventions, no wars, no major
developments of any kind. Psychol-
ogy has been normalizing the race,
breeding out the irrational ele-
ments. So with my drive and ability,
it was like — like playing tennis
against an infant. I couldn’t be

THE ACADEMY

53

stopped.”

Morgan’s face was flushed, and
he had begun to breathe heavily.
He checked himself, and went on
in a quieter tone. “Of course, I
was doing it for neurotic reasons.
Power urge, a bad dose of competi-
tiveness. I underwent Substitution
Therapy.”

Feerman said, “I don’t see any-
thing unsane about wanting to ex-
pand your business.”

“Good Lord, man, don’t you un-
derstand anything about Social
Sanity, Responsibility, and Stasis?
I was on my way to becoming
wealthy. From there, I would have
founded a financial empire. All
quite legal, you understand, but
unsane . After that, who knows
where I would have gone? Into in-
direct control of the government,
eventually. I’d want to change the
psychological policies to conform to
my own abnormalities. And you can
see where that would lead.”

“So you adjusted,” Feerman said.
“I had my choice of Brain Sur-
gery, The Academy, or adjustment.
Fortunately, I found an outlet in
competitive sports. I sublimated my
selfish drives for the good of man-
kind. But the thing is this, Feerman.
I was heading for that red line. I
adjusted before it was too late.”

“I’d gladly adjust,” Feerman
said, “if I only knew what was
wrong with me. The trouble is, I
really don’t know.”

Morgan was silent for a long
time, thinking. Then he said, “I
think you need a rest, Feerman.”

“A rest?” Feerman was instantly
on the alert. “You mean I’m fired?”
“No, of course not. I want to be
fair, play the game. But I’ve got

54

a team here.” Morgan’s vague ges-
ture included the office, the build-
ing, the city. “Unsanity is insidious.
Several ratings in the office have
begun to climb in the last week.”
“And I’m the infection spot.”
“We must accept the rules,” Mor-
gan said, standing erectly in front
of Feerman’s desk. “Your salary will
continue until — until you reach
some resolution.”

“Thanks,” Feerman said dryly.
He stood up and put on his hat.

Morgan put a hand on his shoul-
der. “Have you considered The
Academy?” he asked in a low voice.
“I mean, if nothing else seems to
work — ”

“Definitely and irrevocably not,”
Feerman said, looking directly into
Morgan’s small blue eyes.

Morgan turned away. “You seem
to have an illogical prejudice
against The Academy. Why? You
know how our society is organized.
You can’t think that anything
against the common good would be
allowed.”

“I don’t suppose so,” Feerman
admitted. “But why isn’t more
known about The Academy?”
They walked through the silent
office. None of the men Feerman
had known for so long looked up
from their work. Morgan opened
the door and said, “You know all
about The Academy.”

“I don’t know how it works.”
“Do you know everything about
any therapy? Can you tell me all
about Substitution Therapy? Or
Analysis? Or Olgivey’s Reduction?”
“No. But I have a general idea
how they work.”

“Everyone does,” Morgan said
triumphantly, then quickly lowered

ROBERT SHECKLEY

his voice. “That’s just it. Obviously,
The Academy doesn’t give out such
information because it would inter-
fere with the operation of the thera-
py itself. Nothing odd about that,
is there?”

Feerman thought it over, and al-
lowed Morgan to guide him into
the hall. “I’ll grant that,” he said.
“But tell me; why doesn’t anyone
ever leave The Academy? Doesn’t
that strike you as sinister?”

“Certainly not. You’ve got a very
strange outlook.” Morgan punched
the elevator button as he talked.
“You seem to be trying to create a
mystery where there isn’t one.
Without prying into their profes-
sional business, I can assume that
their therapy involves the patient’s
remaining at The Academy. There’s
nothing strange about a substitute
environment. It’s done all the
time.”

“If that’s the truth, why don’t
they say so?”

“The fact speaks for itself.”

“And where,” Feerman asked, “is
the proof of their hundred percent
cures?”

The elevator arrived, and Feer-
man stepped in. Morgan said, “The
proof is in their saying so. Thera-
pists can’t lie. They can’t, Feer-
man!”

Morgan started to say something
else, but the elevator doors slid
shut. The elevator started down,
and Feerman realized with a shock
that his job was gone.

IT WAS A strange sensation, not
having a job any longer. He had
no place to go. Often he had hated
his work. There had been mornings

THE ACADEMY

when he had groaned at the thought
of another day at the office. But
now that he had it no longer, he
realized how important it had been
to him, how solid and reliable. A
man is nothing, he thought, if he
doesn’t have work to do.

He walked aimlessly, block after
block, trying to think. But he was
unable to concentrate. Thoughts
kept sliding out of reach, eluding
him, and were replaced by glimpses
of his wife’s face. And he couldn’t
even think about her, for the city
pressed in on him, its faces, sounds,
smells.

The only plan of action that came
to mind was unfeasible. Run away,
his panicky emotions told him. Go
where they’ll never find you. Hide!

But Feerman knew this was no
solution. Running away was sheer
escapism, and proof of his deviation
from the norm. Because what, real-
ly, would he be running from?
From the sanest, most perfect so-
ciety that Man had ever conceived.
Only a madman would run from
that.

Feerman began to notice the peo-
ple he passed. They looked happy,
filled with the new spirit of
Responsibility and Social Sanity,
willing to sacrifice old passions for
a new era of peace. It was a good
world, a hell of a good world. Why
couldn’t he live in it?

He could . With the first confi-
dence he had felt in weeks, Feer-
man decided that he would con-
form, somehow.

If only he could find out how.

After hours of walking, Feerman
discovered that he was hungry. He
entered the first diner he saw. The

55

place was crowded with laborers,
for he had walked almost to the
docks.

He sat down and looked at a
menu, telling himself that he needed
time to think. He had to assess his
actions properly, figure out —

“Hey mister.”

He looked up. The bald, un-
shaven counterman was glaring at
him.

“What?”

“Get out of here.”

“What’s wrong?” Feerman
asked, trying to control his sudden
panic.

“We don’t serve no madmen
here,” the counterman said. He
pointed to the Sanity Meter on the
wall, that registered everyone walk-
ing in. The black indicator pointed
slightly past nine. “Get out.”

Feerman looked at the other men
at the counter. They sat in a row,
dressed in similar rough brown
clothing. Their caps were pulled
down over their eyes, and every
man seemed to be reading a news-
paper.

“I’ve got a probationary — ”

“Get out,” the counterman said.
“The law says I don’t have to serve
no plus-nines. It bothers my cus-
tomers. Come on, move.”

The row of laborers sat motion-
less, not looking at him. Feerman
felt the blood rush to his face. He
had the sudden urge to smash in
the counterman’s bald, shiny skull,
wade into the row of listening men
with a meat cleaver, spatter the
dirty walls with their blood, smash,
kill. But of course, aggression was
unsane, and an unsatisfactory
response. He mastered the impulse
and walked out.

56

Feerman continued to walk, re-
sisting an urge to run, waiting for
that train of logical thought that
would tell him what to do. But his
thoughts only became more con-
fused, and by twilight he was ready
to drop from fatigue.

He was standing on a narrow,
garbage-strewn street in the slums.
He saw a hand-lettered sign in a
second-floor window, reading, J.
J. FLYNN, PSYCHOLOGICAL
THERAPIST. MAYBE I CAN
HELP YOU. Feerman grinned
wryly, thinking of all the high-
priced specialists he had seen. He
started to walk away, then turned,
and went up the staircase leading
to Flynn’s office. He was annoyed
with himself again. The moment
he saw the sign he had known he
was going up. Would he never stop
deceiving himself?

Flynn’s office was small and
dingy. The paint was peeling from
the walls, and the room had an
unwashed smell. Flynn was seated
behind an unvarnished wooden
desk, reading an adventure maga-
zine. He was small, middle-aged
and balding. He was smoking a
pipe.

Feerman had meant to start from
the beginning. Instead he blurted
out, “Look, I’m in a jam. I’ve lost
my job, my wife’s left me, I’ve been
to every therapy there is. What can
you do?”

Flynn took the pipe out of his
mouth and looked at Feerman. He
looked at his clothes, hat, shoes, as
though estimating their value. Then
he said, “What did the others say?”

“In effect, that I didn’t have a
chance.”

“Of course they said that,” Flynn

ROBERT SHECKLEY

said, speaking rapidly in a high,
clear voice. “These fancy boys give
up too easily. But there’s always
hope. The mind is a strange and
complicated thing, my friend, and
sometimes — 55 Flynn stopped
abruptly and grinned with sad hu-
mor. “Ah, what’s the use? You’ve
got the doomed look, no doubt of
it.” He knocked the ashes from his
pipe and stared at the ceiling.
“Look, there’s nothing I can do for
you. You know it, I know it. Why’d
you come up here?”

“Looking for a miracle, I sup-
pose,” Feerman said, wearily sit-
ting down on a wooden chair.

“Lots of people do,” Flynn said
conversationally. “And this looks
like the logical place for one, doesn’t
it? You’ve been to the fancy offices
of the specialists. No help there. So
it would be right and proper if an
itinerant therapist could do what
the famous men failed to do. A sort
of poetic justice.”

“Pretty good,” Feerman said,
smiling faintly.

“Oh, I’m not at all bad,” Flynn
said, filling his pipe from a shaggy
green pouch. “But the truth of the
matter is, miracles cost money, al-
ways have, always will. If the big
boys couldn’t help you, I certainly
couldn’t.”

“Thanks for telling me,” Feer-
man said, but made no move to get
up.

“It’s my duty as a therapist,”
Flynn said slowly, “to remind you
that The Academy is always open.”

“How can I go there?” Feerman
asked. “I don’t know anything
about it.”

“No one does,” Flynn said. “Still,
I hear they cure every time.”

THE ACADEMY

“Death is a cure.”

“But a non-functional one. Be-
sides, that’s too discordant with the
times. Deviants would have to run
such a place, and deviants just
aren’t allowed.”

“Then why doesn’t anyone ever
leave?”

“Don’t ask me,” Flynn said. “Per-
haps they don’t want to.” He puffed
on his pipe. “You want some advice.
OK. Have you any money?”
“Some,” Feerman said warily.
“OK. I shouldn’t be saying this,
but . . . Stop looking for cures! Go
home. Send your robutler out for a
couple month’s supply of food.
Hole up for a while.”

“Hole up? Why?”

Flynn scowled furiously at him.
“Because you’re running yourself
ragged trying to get back to the
norm, and all you’re doing is get-
ting worse. I’ve seen it happen a
thousand times. Don’t think about
sanity or unsanity. Just lie around
a couple months, rest, read, grow
fat. Then see how you are.”

“Look,” Feerman said, “I think
you’re right. I’m sure of it! But I’m
not sure if I should go home. I
made a telephone call today. . .
I’ve got some money. Could you
hide me here? Could you hide me?”
Flynn stood up and looked fear-
fully out the window at the dark
street. “I’ve said too much as it is.
If I were younger — but I can’t do
it! I’ve given you unsane advice! I
can’t commit an unsane action on
top of that!”

“I’m sorry,” Feerman said. “I
shouldn’t have asked you. But I’m
really grateful. I mean it.” He stood
up. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” Flynn said. “Good

57

luck to you.55

“Thanks.55 Feerman hurried
downstairs and hailed a cab. In
twenty minutes he was home.

THE HALL was strangely quiet
as Feerman walked toward his
apartment. His landlady’s door was
closed as he passed it, but he had
the impression that it had been
open until he came, and that the
old woman was standing beside it
now, her ear against the thin wood.
He walked faster, and entered his
apartment.

It was quiet in his apartment,
too. Feerman walked into the
kitchen. His robutler was standing
beside the stove, and Speed was
curled up in the corner.

“Welcome home, sir,55 the robut-
ler said. “If you will sit, I will serve
your supper.55

Feerman sat down, thinking
about his plans. There were a lot
of details to work out, but Flynn
was right. Hole up, that was the
thing. Stay out of sight.

“Til want you to go shopping
first thing in the morning,55 he said
to the robutler.

“Yes sir,55 the robutler said, plac-
ing a bowl of soup in front of him.

“We’ll need plenty of staples.
Bread, meat. . . No, buy canned
goods.”

“What kind of canned goods?”
the robutler asked.

“Any kind, as long as it’s a bal-
anced diet. And cigarettes, don’t
forget cigarettes! Give me the salt,
will you?”

The robutler stood beside the
stove, not moving. But Speed began
to whimper softly.

“Robutler. The salt please.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the robutler said.

“What do you mean, you’re
sorry? Hand me the salt.”

“I can no longer obey you.”

“Why not?” ^

“You have just gone over the
red line, sir. You are now plus ten.”

Feerman just stared at him for a
moment. Then he ran into the bed-
room and turned on the Sanity
Meter. The black indicator crept
slowly to the red line, wavered, then
slid decisively over.

He was plus ten.

But that didn’t matter, he told
himself. After all, it was a quan-
titative measurement. It didn’t
mean that he had suddenly become
a monster. He would reason with
the robutler, explain it to him.

Feerman rushed out of the bed-
room. “Robutler! Listen to me — 55

He heard the front door close.
The robutler was gone.

Feerman walked into the living
room and sat down on the couch.
Naturally the robutler was gone.
They had built-in sanity reading
equipment. If their masters passed
the red line, they returned to the
factory automatically. No plus ten
could command a mechanical.

But he still had a chance. There
was food in the house. He would
ration himself. It wouldn’t be too
lonely with Speed here. Perhaps he
would just need a few days.

“Speed?”

There was no sound in the apart-
ment.

“Come here, boy.”

Still no sound.

Feerman searched the apartment
methodically, but the dog wasn’t
there. He must have left with the

58

ROBERT SHECKLEY

robutler.

Alone, Feerman walked into the
kitchen and drank three glasses of
water. He looked at the meal his
robutler had prepared, started to
laugh, then checked himself.

He had to get out, quickly. There
was no time to lose. If he hurried,
he could still make it, to someplace,
any place. Every second counted
now.

But he stood in the kitchen, star-
ing at the floor as the minutes
passed, wondering why his dog had
left him.

There was a knock on his door.

“Mr. Feerman!”

“No,” Feerman said.

“Mr. Feerman, you must leave
now.”

It was his landlady. Feerman
walked to the door and opened it.
“Go? Where?”

“I don’t care. But you can’t stay
here any longer, Mr. Feerman. You
must go.”

Feerman went back for his hat,
put it on, looked around the apart-
ment, then walked out. He left the
door open.

Outside, two men were waiting
for him. Their faces were indistinct
in the darkness.

“Where do you want to go?” one

OolcPfl

“Where can I go?”

“Surgery or The Academy.”

“The Academy, then.”

They put him in a car and drove
quickly away. Feerman leaned
back, too exhausted to think. He
could feel a cool breeze on his face,
and the slight vibration of the car
was pleasant. But the ride seemed
interminably long.

“Here we are,” one of the men

THE ACADEMY

said at last. They stopped the car
and led him inside an enormous
gray building, to a barren little
room. In the middle of the room
was a desk marked RECEPTION-
IST. A man was sprawled half
across it, snoring gently.

One of Feerman’s guards cleared
his throat loudly. The receptionist
sat up immediately, rubbing his
eyes. He slipped on a pair of glasses
and looked at them sleepily.

“Which one?” he asked.

The two guards pointed at Feer-
man.

“All right.” The receptionist
stretched his thin arms, then
opened a large black notebook. He
made a notation, tore out the sheet
and handed it to Feerman’s guards.
They left immediately.

The receptionist pushed a but-
ton, then scratched his head vigor-
ously. “Full moon tonight,” he said
to Feerman, with evident satisfac-
tion.

“What?” Feerman asked.

“Full moon. We get more of you
guys when the moon’s full, or so it
seems. I’ve thought of doing a
study on it.”

“More? More what?” Feerman
asked, still adjusting to the shock
of being within The Academy.

“Don’t be dense,” the reception-
ist said sternly. “We get more plus
tens when the moon is full. I don’t
suppose there’s any correlation, but
— ah, here’s the guard.”

A uniformed guard walked up to
the desk, still knotting his tie.

“Take him to 312AA,” the re-
ceptionist said. As Feerman and the
guard walked away, he removed
his glasses and stretched out again
on the desk.

59

HE GUARD led Feerman
through a complex network of
corridors, marked off with frequent
doors. The corridors seemed to
have grown spontaneously, for
branches shot off at all angles, and
some parts were twisted and curved,
like ancient city streets. As he
walked, Feerman noticed that the
doors were not numbered in se-
quence. He passed 3112, then 25P,
and then 14. And he was certain
that he passed the number 888
three times.

“How can you find your way?”
he asked the guard.

“That’s my job,” the guard said,
not unpleasantly.

“Not very systematic,” Feerman
said, after a while.

“Can’t be,” the guard said in an
almost confidential tone of voice.
“Originally they planned this place
with a lot fewer rooms, but then the
rush .started. Patients, patients,
more every day, and no sign of a
letup. So the rooms had to be bro-
ken into smaller units, and new cor-
ridors had to be cut through.”

“But how do the doctors find
their patients?” Feerman asked.

They had reached 312AA. With-
out answering, the guard unlocked
the door, and, when Feerman had
walked through, closed and locked
it after him.

It was a very small room. There
was a couch, a chair, and a cabinet,
filling all the available space.

Almost immediately, Feerman
heard voices outside the door. A
man said, “Coffee then, at the cafe-
teria in half an hour.” A key
turned. Feerman didn’t hear the
reply, but there was a sudden burst
of laughter. A man’s deep voice

60

said, “Yes, and a hundred more and
we’ll have to go underground for
room!”

The door opened and a bearded
man in a white jacket came in, still
smiling faintly. His face became
professional as soon as he saw Feer-
man. “Just lie on the couch, please,”
he said, politely, but with an un-
mistakable air of command.

Feerman remained standing.
“Now that I’m here,” he said,
“would you explain what all this
means?”

The bearded man had begun to
unlock the cabinet. He looked at
Feerman with a wearily humorous
expression, and raised both eye-
brows. “I’m a doctor,” he said, “not
a lecturer.”

“I realize that. But surely — ”

“Yes, yes,” the doctor said, shrug-
ging his shoulders helplessly. “I
know. You have a right to know,
and all that. But they really should
have explained it all before you
reached here. It just isn’t my job.”

Feerman remained standing. The
doctor said, “Lie down on the
couch like a good chap, and I’ll
tell all.” He turned back to the
cabinet.

Feerman thought fleetingly of
trying to overpower him, but real-
ized that thousands of plus tens
must have thought of it, too. Un-
doubtedly there were precautions.
He lay down on the couch.

“The Academy,” the doctor said
as he rummaged in the cabinet, is
obviously a product of our times.
To understand it, you must first
understand the age we live in.”
The doctor paused dramatically,
then went on with evident gusto.
“Sanity! But there is a tremendous

ROBERT SHECKLEY

strain involved in sanity, you know,
and especially in social sanity. How
easily the mind becomes deranged!
And once deranged, values
change, a man begins to have
strange hopes, ideas, theories, and
a need for action. These things may
not be abnormal in themselves, but
they result inevitably in harm to
society, for movement in any direc-
tion harms a static society. Now,
after thousands of years of blood-
shed, we have set ourselves the goal
of protecting society against the
unsane individual. Therefore — it is
up to the individual to avoid those
mental configurations, those im-
plicit decisions which will make
him a dangerous potential for
change. This will to staticity which
is our ideal required an almost
superhuman strength and determi-
nation. If you don’t have that, you
end up here.”

“I don’t see — ” Feerman began,
but the doctor interrupted.

“The need for The Academy
should now be apparent. Today,
brain surgery is the final effective
alternative to sanity. But this is an
unpleasant eventuality for a man
to contemplate, a truly hellish alter-
native. Government brain surgery
involves death to the original per-
sonality, which is death in its truest
form. The Academy tries to relieve
a certain strain by offering another
alternative.”

“But what is this alternative?
Why don’t you tell it?”

“Frankly, most people prefer not
knowing.” The doctor closed and
locked the cabinet, but Feerman
could not see what instruments he
had selected. “Your reaction isn’t
typical, I assure you. You choose to

THE ACADEMY

think of us as something dark, mys-
terious, frightening. This is because
of your unsanity. Sane people see us
as a panacea, a pleasantly misty re-
lief from certain grim certainties.
They accept us on faith.” The doc-
tor chucked softly.

“To most people, we represent
heaven.”

“Then why not let your methods
be known?”

“Frankly,” the doctor said softly,
“even the methods of heaven are
best not examined too closely.”

“So the whole thing is a hoax!”
Feerman said, trying to sit up.
“You’re going to kill me!”

“Most assuredly not,” the doctor
said, restraining him gently until
Feerman lay back again.

“Then what exactly are you go-
ing to do?”

“You’ll see.”

“And why doesn’t anyone re-
turn?”

“They don’t choose to,” the doc-
tor said. Before Feerman could
move, the doctor had deftly in-
serted a needle into his arm, and
injected him with a warm liquid.
“You must remember,” the doctor
said, “Society must be protected
against the individual.”

“Yes,” Feerman said drowsily,
“but who is to protect the individ-
ual against society?”

The room became indistinct and,
although the doctor answered him,
Feerman couldn’t hear his words,
but he was sure that they were wise,
and proper, and very true.

WHEN HE recovered con-
sciousness he found that he
was standing on a great plain. It

61

was sunrise. In the dim light, wisps
of fog clung to his ankles, and the
grass beneath his feet was wet and
springy.

Feerman was mildly surprised to
see his wife standing beside him,
close to his right side. On his left
was his dog Speed, pressed against
his leg, trembling slightly. His sur-
prise passed quickly, because this
was where his wife and dog should
be; at his side before the battle.

Ahead, misty movement resolved
into individual figures, and as they
approached Feerman recognized
them.

They were the enemy! Leading
the procession was his robutler,
gleaming inhumanly in the half-
light. Morgan was there, shrieking
to the Section Chief that Feerman
must die, and Flynn, that fright-
ened man, hid his face but still ad-
vanced against him. And there was
his landlady, screaming, “No home
for him!” And behind her were
doctors, receptionists, guards, and
behind them marched millions of
men in rough laborer’s clothing,
caps jammed down over their faces,
newspapers tightly rolled as they
advanced.

Feerman tensed expectantly for
this ultimate fight against the ene-

mies who had betrayed him. But a
doubt passed over his mind. Was
this real?

He had a sudden sickening vision
of his drugged body lying in a num-
bered room in The Academy,
while his soul was here in the never-
never land, doing battle with
shadows.

There's nothing wrong with me!
In a moment of utter clarity Feer-
man understood that he had to es-
cape. His destiny wasn’t here, fight-
ing dream-enemies. He had to get
back to the real world. The Status
Quo couldn’t last forever. And
what would mankind do, with all
the toughness, inventiveness, indi-
viduality bred out of the race?

Did no one leave The Academy?
He would! Feerman struggled with
the illusions, and he could almost
feel his discarded body stir on its
couch, groan, move. . .

But his dream-wife seized his
arm and pointed. His dream-dog
snarled at the advancing host.

The moment was gone forever,
but Feerman never knew it. He for-
got his decision, forgot earth, forgot
truth, and drops of dew spattered
his legs as he ran forward to en-
gage the enemy in battle.

• • • THE END

62

By Philip K. Dick

Illustrated by Paul Orban

As curator of the Twentieth Century Exhibit,
George Miller felt that to do a good job he had to
live his work. Then, one day, somebody got into his
exhibit and he went to investigate . . .

THAT’S a strange suit you have
on/5 the robot pubtrans driver
observed. It slid back its door and
came to rest at the curb. “What are
the little round things?”

“Those are buttons/5' George
Miller explained. “They are partly
functional, partly ornamental. This
is an archaic suit of the twentieth
century. I wear it because of the
nature of my employment.”

He paid the robot, grabbed up
his briefcase, and hurried along the
ramp to the History Agency. The
main building was already open
for the day; robed men and women

wandered everywhere. Miller en-
tered a PRIVATE lift, squeezed
between two immense controllers
from the pre-Christian division,
and in a moment was on his way
to his own level, the Middle Twen-
tieth Century.

“Gorning,” he murmured, as
Controller Fleming met him at the
atomic engine exhibit.

“Gorning,” Fleming responded
brusquely. “Look here, Miller. Let’s
have this out once and for all.
What if everybody dressed like
you? The Government sets up strict
rules for dress. Can’t you forget

63

your damn anachronisms once in
awhile? What in God’s name is
that thing in your hand? It looks
like a squashed Jurassic lizard.”

“This is an alligator-hide brief-
case,” Miller explained. “I carry
my study spools in it. The briefcase
was an authority symbol of the
managerial class of the latter twen-
tieth century.” He unzipped the
briefcase. “Try to understand,
Fleming. By accustoming myself to
everyday objects of my research
period I transform my relation
from mere intellectual curiosity to
genuine empathy. You have fre-
quently noticed I pronounce cer-
tain words oddly. The accent is that
of an American business man of the
Eisenhower administration. Dig
me?”

“Eh?” Fleming muttered.

“ Dig me was a twentieth century
expression.” Miller laid out his
study spools on his desk. “Was there
anything you wanted? If not I’ll
begin today’s work. I’ve uncovered
fascinating evidence to indicate
that although twentieth century
Americans laid their own floor tiles,
they did not weave their own cloth-
ing. I wish to alter my exhibits on
this matter.”

“There’s no fanatic like an
academician,” Fleming grated.
“You’re two hundred years behind
times. Immersed in your relics and
artifacts. Your damn authentic rep-
licas of discarded trivia.”

“I love my work,” Miller an-
swered mildly.

“Nobody complains about your
work. But there are other things
than work. You’re a political-social
unit here in this society. Take warn-
ing, Miller! The Board has reports

64

on your eccentricities. They ap-
prove devotion to work. . His
eyes narrowed significantly. “But
you go too far.”

“My first loyalty is to my art,”
Miller said.

“Your what? What does that
mean?”

“A twentieth century term.”
There was undisguised superiority
on Miller’s face. “You’re nothing
but a minor bureaucrat in a vast
machine. You’re a function of an
impersonal cultural totality. You
have no standards of your own. In
the twentieth century men had per-
sonal standards of workmanship.
Artistic craft. Pride of accomplish-
ment. These words mean nothing
to you. You have no soul — another
concept from the golden days of
the twentieth century when men
were free and could speak their
minds.”

“Beware, Miller!” Fleming
blanched nervously and lowered
his voice. “You damn scholars.
Come up out of your tapes and face
reality. You’ll get us all in trouble,
talking this way. Idolize the past,
if you want. But remember — it’s
gone and buried. Times change. So-
ciety progresses.” He gestured im-
patiently at the exhibits that occu-
pied the level. “That’s only an im-
perfect replica.”

“You impugn my research?”
Miller was seething. “This exhibit
is absolutely accurate! I correct it
to all new data. There isn’t any-
thing I don’t know about the twen-
tieth century.”

Fleming shook his head. “It’s no
use.” He turned and stalked weari-
ly off the level, onto the descent
ramp.

PHILIP K. DICK

Miller straightened his collar
and bright hand-painted necktie.
He smoothed down his blue pin-
stripe coat, expertly lit a pipeful of
two-century-old tobacco, and re-
turned to his spools.

Why didn’t Fleming leave him
alone? Fleming, the officious rep-
resentative of the great hierarchy
that spread like a sticky gray web
over the whole planet. Into each in-
dustrial, professional, and residen-
tial unit. Ah, the freedom of the
twentieth century! He slowed his
tape scanner a moment, and a
dreamy look slid over his features.
The exciting age of virility and in-
dividuality, when men were men. . .

It was just about then, just as he
was settling deep in the beauty of
his research, that he heard the in-
explicable sounds. They came from
the center of his exhibit, from with-
in the intricate, carefully-regulated
interior.

Somebody was in his exhibit.

He could hear them back there,
back in the depths. Somebody or
something had got past the safety
barrier set up to keep the public
out. Miller snapped off his tape
scanner and got slowly to his feet.
He was shaking all over as he
moved cautiously toward the ex-
hibit. He killed the barrier and
climbed the railing onto a concrete
sidewalk. A few curious visitors
blinked, as the small, oddly-dressed
man crept among the authentic
replicas of the twentieth century
that made up the exhibit and dis-
appeared within.

Breathing hard, Miller advanced
up the sidewalk and onto a care-
fully-tended gravel path. Maybe it

EXHIBIT PIECE

was one of the other theorists, a
minion of the Board, snooping
around looking for something with
which to discredit him. An inac-
curacy here — a trifling error of no
consequence there. Sweat came out
on his forehead; anger became ter-
ror. To his right was a flower bed.
Paul Scarlet roses and low-growing
pansies. Then the moist green lawn.
The gleaming white garage, with
its door half up. The sleek rear of
a 1954 Buick — and then the house
itself.

He’d have to be careful. If it was
somebody from the Board he’d be
up against the official hierarchy.
Maybe it was somebody big. May-
be even Edwin Carnap, President
of the Board, the highest ranking
official in the N’York branch of
the World Directorate. Shakily,
Miller, climbed the three cement
steps. Now he was on the porch of
the twentieth century house that
made up the center of the exhibit.

It was a nice little house; if he
had lived back in those days he
would have wanted one of his own.
Three bedrooms, a ranch-style
California bungalow. He pushed
open the front door and entered
the livingroom. Fireplace at one
end. Dark wine-colored carpets.
Modem couch and easy chair. Low
hardwood glass-topped coffee table.
Copper ashtrays. A cigarette lighter
and a stack of magazines. Sleek
plastic and steel floor lamps. A
bookcase. Television set. Picture
window overlooking the front gar-
den. He crossed the room to the
hall.

The house was amazingly com-
plete. Below his- feet the floor fur-
nace radiated a faint aura of

65

warmth. He peered into the first
bedroom. A woman’s boudoir. Silk
bed cover. White starched sheets.
Heavy drapes. A vanity table. Bot-
tles and jars. Huge round mirror.
Clothes visible within the closet. A
dressing gown thrown over the
back of a chair. Slippers. Nylon
hose carefully placed at the foot of
the bed.

Miller moved down the hall and
peered into the next room. Bright-
ly painted wallpaper: clowns and
elephants and tight-rope walkers.
The children’s room. Two little
beds for the two boys. Model air-
planes. A dresser with a radio on
it, pair of combs, school books, pen-
nants, a No Parking sign, snapshots
stuck in the mirror. A postage
stamp album.

Nobody there, either.

Miller peered in the modern
bathroom, even into the yellow-
tiled shower. He passed through
the diningroom, glanced down the
basement stairs where the washing
machine and dryer were. Then he
opened the back door and exam-
ined the back yard. A lawn, and
the incinerator. A couple of small
trees and then the three-dimen-
sional projected backdrop of other
houses receding off into incredibly
convincing blue hills. And still no
one. The yard was empty — de-
serted. He closed the door and
started back. . .

From the kitchen came laughter.

A woman’s laugh. The clink of
spoons and dishes. And smells. It
took him a moment to identify
them, scholar that he was. Bacon
and coffee. And hot cakes. Some-
body was eating breakfast. A twen-
tieth century breakfast.

He made his way down the hall,
past a man’s bedroom, shoes and
clothing strewn about, to the en-
trance of the kitchen.

A handsome late-thirtyish wom-
an and two teen-age boys were sit-
ting around the little chrome and
plastic breakfast table. They had
finished eating; the two boys were
fidgeting impatiently. Sunlight fil-
tered through the window over the
sink. The electric clock read half
past eight. The radio was chirping
merrily in the corner. A big pot of
black coffee rested in the center of
the table, surrounded by empty
plates and milk glasses and silver-
ware.

The woman had on a white
blouse and checkered tweed skirt.
Both boys wore faded blue jeans,
sweatshirts, and tennis shoes. As
yet they hadn’t noticed him. Miller
stood frozen at the doorway, while
laughter and small talk bubbled
around him.

“You’ll have to ask your father,”
the woman was saying, with mock
sternness. “Wait until he comes
back.”

“He already said we could,” one
of the boys protested.

“Well, ask him again.”

“He’s always grouchy in the
morning.”

“Not today. He had a good
night’s sleep. His hay fever didn’t
bother him. That new anti-hist the
doctor gave him.” She glanced up
at the clock. “Go see what’s keep-
ing him, Don. He’ll be late to
work.”

“He was looking for the news-
paper.” One of the boys pushed
back his chair and got up. “It
missed the porch again and fell

PHILIP K. DICK

66

in the flowers.” He turned toward
the door, and Miller found him-
self confronting him face to face.
Briefly, the observation flashed
through his mind that the boy
looked familiar. Damn familiar —
like somebody he knew, only young-
er. He tensed himself for the im-
pact, as the boy abruptly halted.

“Gee,” the boy said. “You scared
me.

The woman glanced quickly up
at Miller. “What are you doing
out there, George?” she demanded.
“Come on back in here and finish
your coffee.”

MILLER came slowly into the
kitchen. The woman was fin-
ishing her coffee; both boys were
on their feet and beginning to press
around him.

“Didn’t you tell me I could go
camping over the weekend up at
Russian River with the group from
school?” Don demanded. “You said
I could borrow a sleeping bag from
the gym because the one I had you
gave to the Salvation Army because
you were allergic to the kapok in
it.”

“Yeah,” Miller muttered uncer-
tainly. Don . That was the boy’s
name. And his brother, Ted. But
how did he know that? At the table
the woman had got up and was
collecting the dirty dishes to carry
over to the sink. “They said you al-
ready promised them,” she said
over her shoulder. The dishes clat-
tered into the sink and she began
sprinkling soap flakes over them.
“But you remember that time they
wanted to drive the car and the
way they said it, you’d think they

68

had got your okay. And they hadn’t,
of course.”

Miller sank weakly down at the
table. Aimlessly, he fooled with his
pipe. He set it down in the copper
ashtray and examined the cuff of
his coat. What was happening? His
head spun. He got up abruptly and
hurried to the window, over the
sink.

Houses, Streets. The distant hills
beyond the town. The sights and
sounds of people. The three-dimen-
sional projected backdrop was ut-
terly convincing; or was it the pro-
jected backdrop? How could he be
sure? What was happening?

“George, what’s the matter?”
Marjorie asked, as she tied a pink
plastic apron around her waist and
began running hot water in the
sink. “You better get the car out
and get started to work. Weren’t
you saying last night old man
Davidson was shouting about em-
ployees being late for work and
standing around the water cooler
talking and having a good time on
company time?”

Davidson. The word stuck in
Miller’s mind. He knew it, of
course. A clear picture leaped up:
a tall, white-haired old man, thin
and stern. Vest and pocket watch.
And the whole office, United Elec-
tronic Supply. The twelve story
building in downtown San Fran-
cisco. The newspaper and cigar
stand in the lobby. The honking
cars. Jammed parking lots. The
elevator, packed with bright-eyed
secretaries, tight sweaters and per-
fume.

He wandered out of the kitchen,
through the hall, past his own bed-
room, his wife’s, and into the living-

PHILIP K. DICK

room. The front door was open and
he stepped out onto the porch.

The air was cool and sweet. It
was a bright April morning. The
lawns were still wet. Cars moved
down Virginia Street, toward Shat-
tuck Avenue. Early morning com-
muting traffic, businessmen on their
way to work. Across the street Earl
Kelly cheerfully waved his Oak-
land Tribune as he hurried down
the sidewalk toward the bus stop.

A long way off Miller could see
the Bay Bridge, Yerba Buena Is-
land, and Treasure Island. Beyond
that was San Francisco itself. In a
few minutes he’d be shooting across
the bridge in his Buick, on his way
to the office. Along with thousands
of other businessmen in blue pin-
stripe suits.

Ted pushed past him and out on
the porch. “Then it’s okay? You
don’t care if we go camping?”

Miller licked his dry lips. “Ted,
listen to me. There’s something
strange.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Miller wandered
nervously around on the porch.
“This is Friday, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

“I thought it was.” But how did
he know it was Friday? How did he
know anything? But of course it
was Friday. A long hard week —
old man Davidson breathing down
his neck. Wednesday, especially,
when the General Electric order
was slowed down because of a
strike.

“Let me ask you something,” Mil-
ler said to his son. “This morning —
I left the kitchen to get the news-
paper.”

Ted nodded. “Yeah. So?”

“I got up and went out of the
room. How long was 1 gone? Not
long, was I?” He searched for
words, but his mind was a maze of
disjointed thoughts. “I was sitting
at the breakfast table with you all,
and then I got up and went to look
for the paper. Right? And then I
came back in. Right?” His voice
rose desperately. “I got up and
shaved and dressed this morning. I
ate breakfast. Hot cakes and coffee.
Bacon. Right?”

“Right,” Ted agreed. “So?”
“Like I always do.”

“We only have hot cakes on
Friday.”

Miller nodded slowly. “That’s
right. Hot cakes on Friday. Because
your uncle Frank eats with us Sat-
urday and Sunday and he can’t
stand hot cakes, so we stopped hav-
ing them on weekends. Frank is
Marjorie’s brother. He was in the
Marines in the First World War.
He was a corporal.”

“Goodbye,” Ted said, as Don
came out to join him. “We’ll see
you this evening.”

School books clutched, the boys
sauntered off toward the big
modern high school in the center
of Berkeley.

Miller re-entered the house and
automatically began searching the
closet for his briefcase. Where was
it? Damn it, he needed it. The
whole Throckmorton account was
in it ; Davidson would be yelling his
head off if he left it anywhere, like
in the True Blue Cafeteria that
time they were all celebrating the
Yankee’s winning the series. Where
the hell was it —

He straightened up slowly, as
memory came. Of course. He had

69

EXHIBIT PIECE

left it by his work desk, where he
had tossed it after taking out the re-
search tapes. While Fleming was
talking to him. Back at the History
Agency.

He joined his wife in the kitchen.
“Look,” he said huskily. “Marjorie,
I think maybe I won’t go down to
the office this morning.”

Marjorie spun in alarm. “George,
is anything wrong?”

“I’m — completely confused.”
“Your hay fever again?”

“No. My mind. What’s the name
of that psychiatrist the PTA recom-
mended when Mrs. Bentley’s kid
had that fit?” He searched his dis-
organized brain. “Grunberg, I
think. In the Medical-Dental build-
ing.” He moved toward the door.
“I’ll drop by and see him. Some-
thing’s wrong — really wrong. And I
don’t know what it is.”

ADAM GRUNBERG was a large
heavy-set man in his late forties,
with curly brown hair and horn-
rimmed glasses. After Miller had
finished, Grunberg cleared his
throat, brushed at the sleeve of his
Brooks Bros, suit, and asked
thoughtfully.

“Did anything happen while you
were out looking for the newspaper?
Any sort of accident? You might
try going over that part in detail.
You got up from the breakfast
table, went out on the porch, and
started looking around in the
bushes. And then what?”

Miller rubbed his forehead
vaguely. “I don’t know. It’s all con-
fused. I don’t remember looking for
any newspaper. I remember coming
back in the house. Then it gets

clear. But before that it’s all tied up
with the History Agency and my
quarrel with Fleming.”

“What was that again about your
briefcase? Go over that.”

“Fleming said it looked like a
squashed Jurassic lizard. And I
said—”

“No. I mean, about looking for
it in the closet and not finding it.”
“I looked in the closet and it
wasn’t there, of course. It’s sitting
beside my desk at the History
Agency. On the Twentieth Century
level. By my exhibits.” A strange ex-
pression crossed Miller’s face.
“Good God, Grunberg. You realize
this may be nothing but an exhibit?
You and everybody else — maybe
you’re not real. Just pieces of this
exhibit.”

“That wouldn’t be very pleasant
for us, would it?” Grunberg said,
with a faint smile.

“People in dreams are always
secure until the dreamer wakes up,”
Miller retorted.

“So you’re dreaming me,” Grun-
berg laughed tolerantly. “I suppose
I should thank you.”

“I’m not here because I especially
like you. I’m here because I can’t
stand Fleming and the whole His-
tory Agency.”

Grunberg pondered. “This Flem-
ing. Are you aware of thinking
about him before you went out look-
ing for the newspaper?”

Miller got to his feet and paced
around the luxurious office, between
the leather-covered chairs and the
huge mahogany desk. “I want to
face this thing. I’m in an exhibit.
An artificial replica of the past.
Fleming said something like this
would happen to me.”

PHILIP K. DICK

70

“Sit down, Mr. Miller,” Grun-
berg said, in a gentle but command-
ing voice. When Miller had taken
his chair again, Grunberg con-
tinued, “I understand what you say.
You have a general feeling that
everything around you is unreal. A
sort of stage.”

“An exhibit.”

“Yes, an exhibit in a museum.”
“In the N’York History Agency.
Level R, the Twentieth Century
level.”

“And in addition to this general
feeling of — insubstantiality, there
are specific projected memories of
persons and places beyond this
world. Another realm in which this
one is contained. Perhaps I should
say, the reality within which this
is only a sort of shadow world.”
“This world doesn’t look shadowy
to me.” Miller struck the leather
arm of the chair savagely. “This
world is completely real. That’s
what’s wrong. I came in to investi-
gate the noises and now I can’t get
back out. Good God, do I have to
wander around this replica the rest
of my life?”

“You know, of course, that your
feeling is common to most of man-
kind. Especially during periods of
great tension. Where — by the way
— was the newspaper? Did you find
it?”

“As far as I’m concerned — ”

“Is that a source of irritation
with you? I see you react strongly
to a mention of the newspaper.”
Miller shook his head wearily.
“Forget it.”

“Yes, a trifle. The paperboy care-
lessly throws the newspaper in the
bushes, not on the porch. It makes
you angry. It happens again and

EXHIBIT PIECE

again. Early in the day, just as
you’re starting to work. It seems to
symbolize in a small way the whole
petty frustrations and defeats of
your job. Your whole life.”

“Personally, I don’t give a damn
about the newspaper.” Miller ex-
amined his wristwatch. “I’m going
— it’s almost noon. Old man David-
son will be yelling his head off if
I’m not at the office by — ” He broke
off. “There it is again.”

“There what is?”

“All this!” Miller gestured im-
patiently out the window. “This
whole place. This damn world. This
exhibition ”

“I have a thought,” Doctor
Grunberg said slowly. “I’ll put it to
you for what it’s worth. Feel free to
reject it if it doesn’t fit.” He raised
his shrewd, professional eyes. “Ever
see kids playing with rocketships?”
“Lord,” Miller said wretchedly.
“I’ve seen commercial rocket
freighters hauling cargo between
Earth and Jupiter, landing at La-
Guardia Spaceport.”

Grunberg smiled slightly. “Fol-
low me through on this. A question.
Is it job tension?”

“What do you mean?”

“It would be nice,” Grunberg
said blandly, “to live in the world
of tomorrow. With robots and
rocket ships to do all the work. You
could just sit back and take it easy.
No worries, no cares. No frustra-
tions.”

“My position in the History
Agency has plenty of cares and frus-
trations.” Miller rose abruptly.
“Look, Grunberg. Either this is an
exhibit on R level of the History
Agency, or I’m a middle-class busi-
nessman with an escape fantasy.

71

Right now I can’t decide which.
One minute I think this is real, and
the next minute — ”

“We can decide easily,” Grun-
berg said.

“How?”

“You were looking for the news-
paper. Down the path, onto the
lawn. Where did it happen ? Was
it on the path? On the porch? Try
to remember.”

“I don’t have to try. I was still
on the sidewalk. I had just jumped
over the rail past the safety screens.”
“On the sidewalk. Then go back
there. Find the exact place.”
“Why?”

“So you can prove to yourself
there’s nothing on the other side.”
Miller took a deep, slow breath.
“Suppose there is?”

“There can’t be. You said your-
self: only one of the worlds can be
real. This world is real — ” Grun-
berg thumped his massive ma-
hogany desk. “Ergo, you won’t find
anything on the other side.”

“Yes,” Miller said, after a mo-
ment’s silence. A peculiar expres-
sion cut across his face and stayed
there. “You’ve found the mistake.”
“What mistake?” Grunberg was
puzzled. “What — ”

Miller moved toward the door of
the office. “I’m beginning to get it.
I’ve been putting up a false ques-
tion. Trying to decide which world
is real.” He grinned humorlessly
back at Doctor Grunberg. “They’re
both real, of course.”

HE GRABBED a taxi and headed
back to the house. No one was
home. The boys were in school and
Marjorie had gone downtown to

72

shop. He waited indoors until he
was sure nobody was watching
along the street, and then started
down the path to the sidewalk.

He found the spot without any
trouble. There was a faint shimmer
in the air, a weak place just at the
edge of the parking strip. Through
it he could see faint shapes.

He was right. There is was —
complete and real. As real as the
sidewalk under him.

A long metallic bar was cut off
by the edges of the circle. He recog-
nized it: the safety railing he had
leaped over to enter the exhibit. Be-
yond it was the safety screen system.
Turned off, of course. And beyond
that, the rest of the level and the
far walls of the History building.

He took a cautious step into the
weak haze. It shimmered around
him, misty and oblique. The shapes
beyond became clearer. A moving
figure in a dark blue robe. Some
curious person examining the ex-
hibits. The figure moved on and
was lost. He could see his own work
desk, now. His tape scanner and
heaps of study spools. Beside the
desk was his briefcase, exactly where
he had expected it.

While he was considering step-
ping over the railing to get the
briefcase, Fleming appeared.

Some inner instinct made Miller
step back through the weak spot, as
Fleming approached. Maybe it was
the expression on Fleming’s face. In
any case, Miller was back and
standing firmly on the concrete side-
walk, when Fleming halted just be-
yond the juncture, face red, lips
twisting with indignation.

“Miiler,” he said thickly. “Gome
out of there.”

PHILIP K. DICK

Miller laughed. “Be a good fel-
low, Fleming. Toss me my brief-
case. It’s that strange looking thing
over by the desk. I showed it to you
— remember?”

“Stop playing games and listen
to me!” Fleming snapped. “This is
serious. Carnap knows. I had to in-
form him.”

“Good for you. The loyal bureau-
crat.”

Miller bent over to light his pipe.
He inhaled and puffed a great cloud
of gray tobacco smoke through the
weak spot, out into the R level.
Fleming coughed and retreated.

“What’s that stuff?” he de-
manded.

“Tobacco. One of the things they
have around here. Very common
substance in the twentieth century.
You wouldn’t know about that —
your period is the second century,
BG. The Hellenistic world. I don’t
know how well you’d like that. They
didn’t have very good plumbing
back there. Life expectancy was
damn short.”

“What are you talking about?”

“In comparison, the life ex-
pectancy of my research period is
quite high. And you should see the
bathroom I’ve got. Yellow tile. And
a shower. We don’t have anything
like that at the Agency leisure-
quarters.”

Fleming grunted sourly. “In
other words, you’re going to stay
in there.”

“It’s a pleasant place,” Miller
said easily. “Of course, my position
is better than average. Let me
describe it for you. I have an at-
tractive wife: marriage is per-

mitted, even sanctioned in this era.
I have two fine kids — both boys —

who are going up to Russian River
this weekend. They live with me
and my wife — we have complete
custody of them. The State has no
power of that, yet. I have a brand
new Buick — ”

“Illusions,” Fleming spat. “Psy-
chotic delusions.”

“Are you sure?”

“You damn fool! I always knew
you were too ego-recessive to face
reality. You and your anachronistic
retreats. Sometimes I’m ashamed
I’m a theoretician. I wish I had
gone into engineering.” Fleming’s
lip twitched. “You’re insane, you
know. You’re standing in the mid-
dle of an artificial exhibit, which is
owned by the History Agency, a
bundle of plastic and wire and
struts. A replica of a past age. An
imitation. And you’d rather be
there than in the real world.”

“Strange,” Miller said thought-
fully. “Seems to me I’ve heard the
same thing very recently. You don’t
know a Doctor Grunberg, do you?
A psychiatrist.”

Without formality, Director Car-
nap arrived with his company of
assistants and experts. Fleming
quickly retreated. Miller found him-
self facing one of the most powerful
figures of the twenty-second cen-
tury. He grinned and held out his
hand.

“You insane imbecile,” Carnap
rumbled. “Get out of there before
we drag you out. If we have to do
that, you’re through. You know
what they do with advanced psy-
chotics. It’ll be euthanasia for you.
I’ll give you one last chance to come
out of that fake exhibit — ”

“Sorry,” Miller said. “It’s not
an exhibit.”

EXHIBIT PIECE

73

Carnap’s heavy face registered
sudden surprise. For a brief instant
his massive poise vanished. “You
still try to maintain — ”

“This is a time gate/’ Miller said
quietly. “You can’t get me out, Car-
nap. You can’t reach me. I’m in the
past, two hundred years back. I’ve
crossed back to a previous existence-
coordinate. I found a bridge and
escaped from your continuum to
this. And there’s nothing you can
do about it.”

CARNAP and his experts huddled
together in a quick technical con-
ference. Miller waited patiently. He
had plenty of time ; he had decided
not to show up at the office until
Monday.

After awhile Carnap approached
the juncture again, being careful
not to step over the safety railing.
“An interesting theory, Miller.
That’s the strange part about psy-
chotics. They rationalize their de-
lusions into a logical system. A
priori, your concept stands up well.
It’s internally consistent. Only — ”
“Only what?”

“Only it doesn’t happen to be
true.” Carnap had regained his con-
fidence; he seemed to be enjoying
the interchange. “You think you’re
really back in the past. Yes, this ex-
hibit is extremely accurate. Your
work has always been good. The
authenticity of detail is unequalled
by any of the other exhibits.”

“I tried to do my work well,”
Miller murmured.

“You wore archaic clothing and
affected archaic speech-manner-
isms. You did everything possible
to throw yourself back. You devoted

74

yourself to your work.” Carnap
tapped the safety railing with his
fingernail. “It would be a shame,
Miller. A terrible shame to demolish
such an authentic replica.”

There was silence.

“I see your point,” Miller said,
after a time. “I agree with you, cer-
tainly. I’ve been very proud of my
work — I’d hate to see it all torn
down. But that really won’t do you
any good. All you’ll succeed in do-
ing is closing the time gate.”
“You’re sure?”

“Of course. The exhibit is only
a bridge, a link with the past. I
passed through the exhibit, but I’m
not there now. I’m beyond the ex-
hibit.” He grinned tightly. “Your
demolition can’t reach me. But seal
me off, if you want. I don’t think
I’ll be wanting to come back.”

“I wish you could see this side,
Carnap. It’s a nice place here. Free-
dom, opportunity. Limited govern-
ment, responsible to the people. If
you don’t like a job here you can
quit. There’s no euthanasia, here.
Come on over. I’ll introduce you to
my wife.”

“We’ll get you,” Carnap said.
“And all your psychotic figments
along with you.”

“I doubt if any of my ‘psychotic
figments’ are worried. Grunberg
wasn’t. I don’t think Marjorie is — ”
“We’ve already begun demolition
preparations,” Carnap said calmly.
“We’ll do it piece by piece, not all
at once. So you may have the op-
portunity to appreciate the scien-
tific and — artistic way we take your
imaginary world and people apart.”
“You’re wasting your time,” Mil-
ler said. He turned and walked off,
down the sidewalk, to the gravel

PHILIP K. DICK

path and up onto the front porch
of his house.

In the living room he threw him-
self down in the easy chair and
snapped on the television set. Then
he went to the kitchen and got a
can of ice cold beer from the re-
frigerator. He carried it happily
back into the safe, comfortable
living room.

As he was seating himself in front
of the television set he noticed
something rolled up on the low
coffee table.

He grinned wryly. It was the

morning newspaper, which he had
looked so hard for. Marjorie had
brought it in with the milk, as usual.
And of course forgotten to tell him.
He yawned contentedly and
reached over to pick it up. Languid-
ly, confidently, he unfolded it — and
read the big black headlines.

RUSSIA REVEALS COBALT

BOMB

TOTAL WORLD
DESTRUCTION AHEAD

• • • THE END

^\wvvvvvvvvvvvv\vvvvv\vvvvvvvvvvvvvmvvvvvv\vmvvv\\vv\vvvmvv\vvv\vvuvvvvvvvvv\vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv\j

WHAT IS YOUR SCIENCE I.Q.?

IF YOU ARE an “average” reader of science fiction you ought
to manage eight out of the 13 questions below. If you are a fan,
or rabid reader, your score should be eleven right! Check your
answers with those on page 116.

1. Which planet requires 84 years to make one circuit of the sun?

2. A piezometer is used to measure the compressibility of

3. What are the nuclei of heavy hydrogen called?

4. In which constellation are the stars that form the Big Dipper?

5. That part of the science of biology which deals with the relation be-
tween organisms and their environment is called

6. Which is the fourth brightest star in the heavens?

7. A Metonic cycle is a period of years, after which time

the new moon and the full moon fall on the same days of the year
again.

8. In which constellation is the planet Pluto?

9. Ylem is the word used to describe matter.

10. Which is the brightest star in Bootes?

1 1 . The Doppler shift is used by astrophysicists to estimate the

of luminous bodies.

12. The two principal types of galaxies are spiral and -

13. Which one is not a star: Procyon, Mizar, Spica, Alioth, Cetus,
Regulus.

EXHIBIT PIECE

75

That It landed on Earth was perhaps destiny. That Les
and Marian were making their trip in August was per-
haps coincidence. That Ketter kept a zoo was perhaps
unfortunate. However, It was hungry — and Les and
Marian were making their trip and Ketter kept a zoo
... A horror story you’ll read with shivers down your
spine!

BEING

By Richard Matheson

Illustrated by Virgil Finlay

ON SATURDAY, which was
August 6th that year, a ball
of eerie light descended on the des-
ert and people twenty miles away
stared at the phosphorescent trail
it left on the twilight sky.

“A meteor,” they said but that
was because they had to say some-
thing.

In darkness hovering. A sound-
less shell of metals glistening pale —
held aloft by threads of anti-gravity .
Below , the planet, shrouded with
night, turning from the moon. On
its black-swept face, an animal star-
ing up with bright-eyed panic at the
dully phosphorescent globe sus-

pended overhead. A twitch of mus-
cle. The hard earth drums delicately
beneath fleeing pawbeats. Silence
again, wind-soughed and lone.
Hours. Black hours passing into
grey, then mottled pink. Sunlight
sprays across the metal globe. It
shimmers with unearthly light.

It was like putting his hand into
a scorching oven.

“Oh my God, it’s hot,” he said,
grimacing, jerking back his hand
and closing it once more, gingerly,
over the sweat-stained steering
wheel.

“It’s your imagination.” Marian
lay slumped against the warm, plas-

77

tic-covered seat. A mile behind,
she’d stuck her sandaled feet out
the window. Her eyes were closed,
breath fell in fitful gasps from her
drying lips. Across her face, the hot
wind fanned bluntly, ruffling the
short blond hair.

“It’s not hot,” she said, squirm-
ing uncomfortably, tugging at the
narrow belt on her shorts. “It’s cool.
As a cucumber.”

“Ha,” Les grunted. He leaned
forward a little and clenched his
teeth at the feel of his sport shirt
clinging damply to his back. “What
a month for driving,” he growled.

They’d left Los Angeles three
days before on their way to visit
Marian’s family in New York. The
weather had been equatorial from
the start, three days of blazing sun
that had drained them of energy.

The schedule they were attempt-
ing to maintain made things even
worse. On paper, four hundred
miles a day didn’t seem like much.
Converted into practical traveling
it was brutalizing. Traveling over
dirt cutoffs that sent up spinning,
choking dust clouds. Traveling over
rut-pocked stretches of highway un-
der repair; afraid to hit more than
twenty miles an hour on them for
fear of snapping an axle or shaking
their brains loose.

Worst of all, traveling up twenty
to thirty mile grades that sent the
radiator into boiling frenzies every
half hour or so. Then sitting for
long, sweltering minutes, waiting
for the motor to cool off, pouring in
fresh water from the water bag,
sitting and waiting in the middle of
an oven.

“I’m done on one side,” Les said,
breathlessly. “Turn me.”

78

“And ha to you,” Marian sotto
voiced.

“Any water left?”

Marian reached down her left
hand and tugged off the heavy top
of the portable ice box. Feeling in-
side its coolish interior, she pulled
up the thermos bottle. She shook it.

“Empty,” she said, shaking her
head.

“As my head ” he finished in a
disgusted voice, “For ever letting
you talk me into driving to New
York in August.”

“Now, now,” she said, her cajol-
ing a trifle worn, “Don’t get heated
up.

“Damn!” he snapped irritably,
“When is this damn cutoff going
to get back to the damn highway?”

“Damn,” she muttered lightly,
“Damn damn.”

He said no more. His hands
gripped tighter on the wheel. Hwy.
66 , alt . rte. — they’d been on the
damn thing for hours now, shunted
aside by a section of the main high-
way undergoing repair. For that
matter, he wasn’t even sure they
were on the alternate route. There
had been five crossroads in the past
two hours. In speeding along to get
out of the desert, he hadn’t looked
too carefully at the crossroad signs.

“Honey, there’s a station,”
Marian said, “let’s see if we can
get some water.”

“And some gas,” he added, glanc-
ing at the gauge, “And some in-
structions on how to get back to the
highway.”

“The damn highway,” she said.

A faint smile tugged at Les’s
mouth corners as he pulled the Ford
off the road and braked up beside
the two paint-chipped pumps that

RICHARD MATHESON

stood before an old sagging shack.

“This is a hot looking spot,” he
said dispassionately. “Ripe for de-
velopment.”

* “For the right party.” Marian’s
eyes closed again. She drew in a
heavy breath through her open
mouth.

No one came out of the shack.

“Oh, don’t tell me it’s deserted”
Les said disgustedly, looking
around.

Marian drew down her long legs.
“Isn’t there anybody here?” she
asked, opening her eyes.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

Les pushed open the door and
slid out. As he stood, an involun-
tary grunt twitched his body and
his knees almost buckled. It felt as
if someone had dropped a mountain
of heat on his head.

ctGod!” He blinked away the
waves of blackness lapping at his
ankles.

“What is it?”

“This heat ” He stepped between
the two rusty handled pumps and
crunched over the hot, flaky ground
for the doorway of the shack.

“And we’re not even a third of
the way,” he muttered grimly to
himself. Behind him, he heard the
car door slam on Marian’s side and
her loose sandals flopping on the
ground.

Dimness gave the illusion of cool-
ness only for a second. Then the
muggy, sodden air in the shack
pressed down on Les and he hissed
in displeasure.

There was no one in the shack.
He looked around its small confines
at the uneven-legged table with the
scarred surface, the backless chair,
the cobwebbed coke machine, the

price lists and calendars on the
wall, the threadbare shade on the
small window, drawn down to the
sill, shafts of burnished light impal-
ing the many rents.

The wooden floor creaked as he
stepped back out into the heavy
sunlight.

“No one?” Marian asked and he
shook his head. They looked at each
other without expression a moment
and she patted at her forehead with
a damp handkerchief.

“Well, onward,” she said wryly.

That was when they heard the
car come rattling down the rutted
lane that led off the road into the
desert. They walked to the edge of
the shack and watched the old,
home-made tow truck make its
wobbling, noisy approach toward
the station. Far back from the road
was the low form of the house it had
come from.

“To the rescue,” Marian said. “I
hope he has water.”

As the truck groaned to a halt
beside the shack, they could see the
heavily-tanned face of the man be-
hind the wheel. He was somewhere
in his thirties, a dour looking in-
dividual in a tee shirt and patched
and faded blue overalls. Lank hair
protruded from beneath the brim
of his grease-stained stetson.

It wasn’t a smile he gave them
as he slid out of the truck. It was
more like a reflex twitching of his
lean, humorless mouth. He moved
up to them with jerky boot strides,
his dark eyes moving from one to
the other of them.

“You want gas?” he asked Les in
a hard, thick-throated voice.

“Please.”

The man looked at Les a moment

79

BEING

as if he didn’t understand. Then
he grunted and headed for the
Ford, reaching into his back overall
pocket for the pump key. As he
walked past the front bumper, he
glanced down at the license plate.

He stood looking dumbly at the
tank cap for a moment, his cal-
loused fingers trying vainly to un-
screw it.

“It locks,” Les told him, walking
over hurriedly with the keys. The
man took them without a word and
unlocked the cap. He put the cap
on top of the trunk door.

“You want ethyl?” he asked,
glancing up, his eyes shadowed by
the wide hat brim.

“Please,” Les told him.

“How much?”

“You can fill it.”

The hood was burning hot. Les
jerked back his fingers with a gasp.
He took out his handkerchief,
wrapped it around his hand and
pulled up the hood. When he un-
screwed the radiator cap, boiling
water frothed out and splashed
down smoking onto the parched
ground.

“Oh, fine,” he muttered to him-
self.

The water from the hose was al-
most as hot. Marian came over and
put one finger in the slow gush as
Les held it over the radiator.

“Oh . . . gee,” she said in disap-
pointment. She looked over at the
overalled man. “Have you got any
cool water?” she asked.

The man kept his head down, his
mouth pressed into a thin, drooping
line. She asked again, without re-
sult.

“The hair-triggered Arizonian,”
she muttered to Les as she started

80

back toward the man.

“I beg your pardon,” she said.

The man jerked up his head,
startled, the pupils of his dark eyes
flaring. “Ma’m?” he said quickly.

“Can we get some cool drinking
water?”

The man’s rough-skinned throat
moved once. “Not here, ma’m,” he
said, “but . .

His voice broke off and he looked
at her blankly.

“You . . . you’re from California,
ain’t you?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Goin’ . . ‘ far?”

“New York,” she said impatient-
ly. “But what about — ”

The man’s bleached eyebrows
moved together. “New York,” he
repeated. “Pretty far.”

“What about the water?” Marian
asked him.

“Well,” the man said, his lips
twitching into the outline of a
smile, “I ain’t got none here but if
you want to drive back to the house,
my wife’ll get you some.”

“Oh.” Marian shrugged slightly.
“All. right.”

“You can look at my zoo while
my wife gets the water,” the man
offered, then crouched down quick-
ly beside the fender to listen and
hear if the tank were filling up.

“We have to no back to his house

c )

to get water,” Marian told Les as
he unscrewed one of the battery
caps.

“Oh? Okay.”

The man turned off the pump
and replaced the cap.

“New York, haah?” he said, look-
ing at them. Marian smiled politely
and nodded.

After Les had pushed the hood

RICHARD MATHESON

back down, they got into the car
to follow the man’s truck back to
the house.

“He has a zoo,” Marian said, ex-
pressionlessly.

“How nice,” Les said as he let up
the clutch and the car rolled down
off the slight rise on which the gas
pumps stood.

“They make me mad,” Marian
said.

They’d seen dozens of the zoos
since they’d left Los Angeles. They
were usually located beside gas sta-
tions— designed to lure extra cus-
tomers. Invariably, they were piti-
ful collections — barren little cages
in which gaunt foxes cringed, star-
ing out with sick, glazed eyes, rattle-
snakes coiled lethargically, maybe a
feather-molted eagle glowered from
a dark cage corner. And, usually, in
tjie middle of the so-called zoo
would be a chained-up wolf or
coyote ; a straggly woe-be-gone crea-
ture who paced constantly in a cir-
cle whose radius was the length of
the chain; who never looked at the
people but stared straight ahead
with red-rimmed eyes, pacing end-
lessly on thin stalks of legs.

“I hate them,” Marian said bit-
terly.

“I know, baby,” Les said.

“If we didn’t need water, I’d
never go back to his damned old
house.”

Les smiled. “Okay ma,” he said
quietly, trying to avoid the holes in
the lane. “Oh.33 He snapped two
fingers. “I forgot to ask him how to
get back to the highway.”

“Ask him when we get to his
house,” she said.

The house was faded brown, a
two-story wooden structure that

BEING

looked a hundred years old. Behind
it stood a row of low, squarish huts.

“The zoo,” Les said, “Lions ’n
tigers ’n everything.”

“Nuts,” she said.

He pulled up in front of the quiet
house and saw the man in the stet-
son slide off the dusty seat of his
truck and jump down off the run-
ning board.

“Get you the water,” he said
quickly and started for the house.
He stopped a moment and looked
back. “Zoo’s in the back,” he said,
gesturing with his head.

They watched him move up the
steps of the old house. Then Les
stretched and blinked at the glaring
sunlight.

“Shall we look at the zoo?33 he
asked, trying not to smile.

“No.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, I don’t want to see that 33

“I’m going to take a look.”

“Well ... all right,” she said,
“but it’s going to make me mad.”

They walked around the edge of
the house and moved along its side
in the shade.

“Oh, does that feel good,”
Marian said.

“Hey, he forgot to ask for his
money.”

“He will,” she said.

They approached the first cage
and looked into the dim interior
through the two-foot-square win-
dow that was barred with thick
doweling.

“Empty,” Les said.

“Good.”

“Some zoo.”

They walked slowly toward the
next cage. “Look how small they
are,” Marian said unhappily, “How

81

would he like to be cooped up in
one of them?”

She stopped walking.

“No, I’m not going to look,” she
said angrily, “I don’t want to see
how the poor things are suffering.”

“I’ll just take a look,” he said.

“You’re a fiend.”

She heard him chuckle as she
stood watching him walk up to the
second of the cages. He looked in.

“Marian!” His cry made her
body twitch.

“What is it?” she asked, running
to him anxiously.

“Look”

He stared with shocked eyes into
the cage.

Her whisper trembled. “Oh my
God”

There was a man in the cage.

HE LOOKED at him with un-
believing eyes, unconscious of
the large drops of sweat trickling
across her brow and down her
temples.

The man was lying on the floor,
sprawled like a broken doll across
a dirty army blanket. His eyes were
open but the man saw nothing. His
pupils were dilated, he looked
doped. His grimy hands rested limp-
ly on the thinly-strawed floor, mo-
tionless twists of flesh and bone. His
mouth hung open like a yellow-
toothed wound, edged with dry,
cracking lips.

When Les turned, he saw that
Marian was already looking at him,
her face blank, the skin drawn taut-
ly over her paling cheeks.

“What is this?” she asked in a
faint tremor of voice.

“I don’t know.”

82

He glanced once more into the
cage as if he already doubted what
he’d seen. Then he was looking at
Marian again. “I don’t know,” he
repeated, feeling the heartbeats
throb heavily in his chest.

Another moment they looked at
each other, their eyes stark with
uncomprehending shock.

“What are we going to do?”
Marian asked, almost whispering
the words.

Les swallowed the hard lump in
his throat. He looked into the cage
again. “Hello” he heard himself
say, “Can you — ”

He broke off abruptly, throat
moving again. The man was coma-
tose.

“Les, what if — ”

He looked at her. And, suddenly,
his scalp was crawling because
Marian was looking in wordless ap-
prehension at the next cage.

His running footsteps thudded
over the dry earth, raising the dust.

“No” he murmured, looking into
the next cage. He felt himself shud-
der uncontrollably as Marian ran
up to him.

“Oh my God, this is hideous ”
she cried, staring with sick fright
at the second caged man.

They both started as the man
looked up at them with glazed, life-
less eyes. For a moment, his slack
body lurched up a few inches and
his dry lips fluttered as though he
were trying to speak. A thread of
saliva ran from one corner of his
mouth and dribbled down across
his beard-blackened chin. For a
moment his sweaty, dirt-lined face
was a mask of impotent entreaty.

Then his head rolled to one side
and his eyes rolled back.

RICHARD MATHESON

Marian backed away from the
cage, shaking hand pressed to her
cheek.

“The man’s insane ” she mut-
tered and looked around abruptly
at the silent house.

Then Les had turned too and
both of them were suddenly aware
of the man in the house who had
told them to go and look at his zoo.

“Les, what are we going to do?”
Marian’s voice shook with rising
hysteria.

Les felt numb, devoured by the
impact of what they’d seen. For a
long moment he could only stand
shivering and stare at his wife, feel-
ing immersed in some fantastic
dream.

Then his lips jammed together
and the heat seemed to flood over
him.

, “Let’s get out of here,” he
snapped and grabbed her hand.

The only sound was their harsh
panting and the quick slap of
Marian’s sandals on the hard
ground. The air throbbed with in-
tense heat, smothering their breath,
making perspiration break out
heavily across their faces and
bodies.

“Faster,” Les gasped, tugging at
her hand.

Then, as they turned the edge of
the house, they both recoiled with
a violent contracting of muscles.

“No!” Marian’s cry contorted
her face into a twisted mask of ter-
ror.

The man stood between them
and their car, a long double-bar-
reled shotgun leveled at them.

Les didn’t know why the idea
flooded through his brain. But, sud-
denly, he realized that no one knew

where he and Marian were, no one
could even know where to begin
searching for them. In rising panic,
he thought of the man asking them
where they were going, he thought
of the man looking down at their
California license plate.

And he heard the man, the hard,
emotionless voice of the man.

“Now go on back,” the man said,
“to the zoo”

AFTER he’d locked the couple
in one of the cages, Merv
Ketter walked slowly back to the
house, the heavy shotgun pulling
down his right arm. He’d felt no
pleasure in the act, only a draining
relief that had, for a moment, loos-
ened the tightness in his body. But,
already, the tightness was returning.
It never went away for more than
the few minutes it took him to trap
another person and cage him.

If anything, the tightness was
worse now. This was the first time
he’d ever put a woman in one of
his cages. The knowledge twisted
a cold knot of despair in his chest.
A woman — he’d put a woman in
his cage. His chest shuddered with
harsh breath as he ascended the
rickety steps of the back porch.

Then, as the screen door slapped
shut behind him, his long mouth
tightened. Well, what was he sup-
posed to do? He slammed the shot-
gun down on the yellow oil-clothed
surface of the kitchen table, an-
other forced breath wracking his
chest. What else could I do — he
argued with himself. His boots
clacked sharply across the worn
linoleum as he walked to the quiet,
sun-lanced livingroom.

BEING 83

Dust rose from the old arm chair
as he dropped down heavily, spirit-
lessly. What was he supposed to do?
He’d had no choice.

For the thousandth time, he
looked down at his left forearm, at
the slight reddish bulge just under
the elbow joint. Inside his flesh, the
tiny metal cone was still humming
delicately. He knew it without lis-
tening. It never stopped.

He slumped back exhaustedly
with a groan and lay his head on
the high back of the chair. His eyes
stared dully across the room,
through the long slanting bar of
sunlight quivering with dust motes.
At the mantelpiece.

The Mauser rifle — he stared at
it. The Luger, the bazooka shell,
the hand grenade, all of them still
active. Vaguely, through his tor-
mented brain, curled the idea of
putting the Luger to his temple,
holding the Mauser against his side,
even of pulling out the pin and
holding the grenade against his
stomach.

War hero . The phrase scraped
cruelly at his mind. It had long lost
its meaning, its comfort. Once, it
had meant something to him to be
a medaled warrior, ribboned,
lauded, admired.

Then Elsie had died, then the
battles and the pride were gone. He
was alone in the desert with his
trophies and with nothing else.

And then one day he’d gone into
that desert to hunt.

His eyes shut, his leathery throat
moved convulsively. What was the
use of thinking, of regretting? The
will to live was still in him. Maybe
it was a stupid, a pointless will but
it was there just the same; he

84

couldn’t rid himself of it. Not after
two men were gone, not after five,
no, not even after seven men were
gone.

The dirt-filled nails dug remorse-
lessly into his palms until they broke
the skin. But a woman, a woman.
The thought knifed at him. He’d
never planned on caging a woman.

One tight fist drove down in
futile rage on his leg. He couldn’t
help it. Sure, he’d seen the Califor-
nia plate. But he wasn’t going to do
it. Then the woman had asked for
water and he suddenly had known
that he had no choice, he had to do
it.

There were only two men left.

And he’d found out that the cou-
ple were going to New York and
the tension had come and gone,
loosened and tightened in a spastic
rhythm as he knew, in his very flesh,
that he was going to tell them to
come and look at his zoo.

I should have given them an in-
jection, he thought. They might
start screaming. It didn’t matter
about the man, he was used to men
screaming. But a woman . . .

Merv Ketter opened his eyes and
stared with hopeless eyes at the
mantelpiece, at the picture of his
dead wife, at the weapons which
had been his glory and now were
meaningless — steel and wood with-
out worth, without substance.

Hero .

The word made his stomach turn.

The glutinous pulsing slowed ,
paused a moment’s fraction, then
began again, filling the inner shell
with its hissing, spumous sound. A
flaccid wave of agitation rippled
down along the rows of muscle

RICHARD MATHESON

coils . The being stirred . It was time .

Thought. The shapeless , gauze -
airbubble coalesced; sur-
rounded. The being moved, an un-
dulation, a gelatinous worming
within the shimmering bubble. A
bumping, a slithering, a rocking
flow of viscous tissues.

Thought again — a wave direct-
ing. The hiss of entering atmos-
phere, the soundless swinging of
metal. Open. Shutting with a click.
Sunset’s blood edged the horizon. A
slow and noiseless sinking in the
air, a colorless balloon filled with
something formless, something
alive.

Earth, cooling. The being
touched it, settled. It moved across
the ground and every living thing
fled its scouring approach. In its
ropy wake, the ground was left a
green and yellow iridescence.

“Look out.”

Marian’s sudden whisper almost
made him drop the nail file. He
jerked back his hand, his sweat-
grimed cheek twitching and drew
back quickly into the shadows. The
sun was almost down.

“Is he coming this way?” Marian
asked, her voice husky with dry-
ness.

“I don’t know.” He stood tense-
ly, watching the overalled man ap-
proach, hearing the fast crunch of
his boot heels on the baked ground.
He tried to swallow but all the mois-
ture in him had been blotted up by
the afternoon heat and only a futile
clicking sounded in his throat. He
was thinking about the man seeing
the deeply-filed slit in the window
bar.

The man in the stetson walked

quickly, his face blank and hard,
his hands swinging in tense little
arcs at his sides.

“What’s he going to do?”
Marian’s voice rasped nervously,
her physical discomfort forgotten
in the sudden return of fear.

Les only shook his head. All after-
noon he’d been asking himself the
same question. After they’d been
locked up, after the man had gone
back to his house, during the first
terrifying minutes and for the rest
of the time when Marian had found
the nail file in the pocket of her
shorts and shapeless panic had
gained the form of hoping for es-
cape. All during that time the ques-
tion had plagued him endlessly.
What was the man going to do with
them?

But it wasn’t their cage the man
was headed for. A loosening of re-
lief made them both go slack. The
man hadn’t even looked toward the
cage they were in. He seemed to
avoid looking toward it.

Then the man had passed out of
their sight and they heard the sound
of him unlocking one of the cages.
The squeaking rasp of the rusty
door hinges made Les’s stomach
muscles draw taut.

The man appeared again.

Marian caught her breath. They
both stared at the unconscious man
being dragged across the ground,
his heels raking narrow gouges in
the dust.

After a few feet, the man let go
of the limp arms and the body fell
with a heavy thud. The man in the
overalls looked behind him then,
his head jerking around suddenly.
They saw his throat move with a
convulsive swallow. The man’s eyes

BEING

85

moved quickly, looking in all di-
rections.

“What’s he looking for?” Marian
asked in a shaking whisper.

“Marian, I don’t know 33

“He’s leaving him there!” She al-
most whimpered the word.

Their eyes filled with confused
fear, they watched the overalled
man move for the house again, his
long legs pumping rapidly, his head
moving jerkily as he looked from
side to side. Dear God, what is he
looking for? — Les thought in rising
dread.

The man suddenly twitched in
mid-stride and clutched at his left
arm. Then, abruptly, he broke into
a frightened run and leaped up the
porch steps two at a time. The
screen door slapped shut behind
him with a loud report and then
everything was deadly still.

A sob caught in Marian’s throat.
“I’m afraid ” she said in a thin,
shuddering voice.

He was afraid too; he didn’t
know of what but he was terribly
afraid. Chilling uneasiness crawled
up his back and rippled coldly on
his neck. He kept staring at the
body of the man sprawled on the
ground, at the still, white face look-
ing up sightlessly at the darkening
sky.

He jolted once as, across the yard,
he heard the back door of the house
being slammed shut and locked.

SILENCE. A great hanging pall
of it that pressed down on them
like lead. The man slumped motion-
less on the ground. Their breaths
quick, labored. Their lips trembling,
their eyes fastened almost hypno-

86

tically on the man.

Marian drew up one fist and dug
her teeth into the knuckles. Sunlight
rimmed the horizon with a scarlet
ribbon. Soundlessness. Heavy
soundlessness.

Soundlessness.

Sound.

Their breath stopped. They stood
there, mouths open, ears straining at
the sound they’d never heard be-
fore. Their bodies went rigid as
they listened to —

A bumping , a slithering , a rock-
ing flow °f —

“Oh, God!3' Her voice was a
gasping of breathless horror as she
spun away, shaking hands flung
over her eyes.

It was getting dark and he
couldn’t be sure of what he saw. He
stood paralyzed and numb in the
fetid air of the cage, staring with
blood-drained face at the thing that
moved across the ground toward the
man’s body; the thing that had
shape yet not shape, that crept like
a current of shimmering jellies.

A terrified gagging filled his
throat. He tried to move bajk but
he couldn’t. He didn’t want to see.
He didn’t want to hear the hideous
gurgling sound like water being
sucked into a great drain, the turbid
bubbling that was like vats of boil-
ing tallow.

No, his mind kept repeating, un-
able to accept, no, no, no, no!

Then the scream made them both
jerk like boneless things and drove
Marian against one of the cage
walls, shaking with nauseous shock.

And the man was gone from the
earth. Les stared at the place where
he had been, stared at the luminous
mass that pulsated there like a great

RICHARD MATHESON

mound of balloon-encased plank-
ton undulating palely in their fluids.

He stared at it until the man had
been completely eaten.

Then he turned away on dead-
ened legs and stumbled to Marian’s
side. Her shaking fingers clutched
like talons at his back and he felt
her tear- streaked, twisted face press
into his shoulder. Unfeelingly, he
slid his arms around her, his face
stiff with spent horror. Vaguely,
through the body-clutching horror,
he felt the need to comfort her, to
ease her fright.

But he couldn’t. He felt as if a
pair of invisible claws had reached
into his chest and ripped out all
his insides. There wasn’t anything
left, just a cold, frost-edged hollow
in him. And, in the hollow, a knife
jabbing its razor tip each time he
realized again why they were there.

When the scream came, Merv
slammed both hands across his ears
so hard it made his head ache.

He couldn’t seem to cut off the
sound anymore. Doors wouldn’t
shut tightly enough, windows
wouldn’t seal away the world, walls
were to porous — the screams always
reached him.

Maybe it was because they were
really in his mind where there were
no doors to lock, no windows to
shut and close away the screaming
of terror. Yes, maybe they were in
his mind. It would explain why he
still heard them in his sleep.

And, when it was over and Merv
knew that the thing had gone, he
trudged slowly into the kitchen and
opened the door. Then, like a robot
driven by remorseless gears, he went
to the calendar and circled the date.

Sunday, August 22nd.

The eighth man.

The pencil dropped from his
slack fingers and rolled across the
linoleum. Sixteen days — one man
each two days for sixteen days. The
mathematics of it were simple. The
truth was not.

He paced the living room, passing
in and out of the lamplight aura
which cast a buttery glow across his
exhausted features, then melted
away as he moved into shadow

again. Sixteen days. It seemed like
sixteen years since he’d gone out
into the desert to hunt for jackrab-
bits. Had it only been sixteen days
ago?

Once again he saw the scene
within his mind; it never left. Him
scuffing across late afternoon sands,
shotgun cradled against his hip,
head slowly turning, eyes search-
ing beneath the brim of his hat.

Then, moving over the crest of a
scrub-grown dune, stopping with a

87

BEING

gasp, his eyes staring up at the globe
which shimmered like a light im-
mersed in water. His heartbeat jolt-
ing, every muscle tensing abruptly
at the sight.

Approaching then, standing al-
most below the luminescent sphere
that caught the lowering sun rays
redly.

A gasp tearing back -his lips at the
circular cavity appearing on the
surface of the globe. And out of the
cavity floating —

He’d spun then and run, his
breath whistling as he scram-
bled frantically up the rise again,
his boot heels gouging at the sand.
Topping the rise, he’d started to
run in long, panic-driven strides,
the gun held tautly in his right
hand, banging against his leg.

Then the sound overhead — like
the noise of gas escaping. Wild-
eyed, he’d looked up over his shoul-
der. A terrified cry had wrenched
his face into a mask of horror.

Ten feet over his head, the bul-
bous glow floated.

Merv lunged forward, his legs
rising high as he fled. A fetid heat
blew across his back. He looked up
again with terrified eyes to see the
thing descending on him. Seven
feet above him — six — five —

Merv Ketter skidded to his knees,
twisted around, jerked up the shot-
gun. The silence of the desert was
shattered by the blast.

A gagging scream ripped from
his throat as shot sprayed off the
lucent bubble like pebbles off a rub-
ber ball. He felt some of it burrow
into his shoulder and arm as he
flung over to one side, the gun fall-
ing from his nerveless grip. Four
feet — three— the heat surrounded

88

him, the choking odor made the
air swim before his eyes.

His arms flung up. “NO!”

Once he had jumped into a wa-
ter hole without looking and been
mired on the shallow bottom by
hot slime. It felt like that now, only
this time the ooze was jumping
onto him. His screams were lost in
the crawling sheath of gasses and
his flailing limbs caught fast in
glutinous tissue. Around his terror-
frozen eyes, he saw an agitating
gelatine filled with gyrating span-
gles. Horror pressed at his skull, he
felt death sucking at his life.

But he didn’t die.

He inhaled and there was air
even though the air was grumous
with a stomach-wrenching stench.
His lungs labored, he gagged as he
breathed.

Then something moved in his
brain.

He tried to twist and tried to
scream but he couldn’t. It felt like
vipers threading through his brain,
gnawing with poisoned teeth on tis-
sues of his thought.

The serpents coiled and tight-
ened. I could kill yotl now — the
words scalded like acid. The muscle
cords beneath his face tensed but
even they couldn’t move in the
putrescent glue.

And then more words had
formed and were burning, were
branding themselves indelibly into
his mind.

You will get me food.

He was still shuddering now,
standing before the calendar, star-
ing at the penciled circles.

What else could he have done?
The question pleaded like a grovel-
ing suppliant. The being had picked

RICHARD MATHESON

his mind clean. It knew about his
home, his station, his wife, his past.
It told him what to do, it left no
choice. He had to do it. Would
anyone have let themselves die like
that if they had an alternative ;
would anyone ? Wouldn’t anyone
have promised the world itself to
be freed of that horror?

Grim-faced, trembling, he went
up the stairs on feeble legs, know-
ing there would be no sleep, but go-
ing anyway.

Slumped down on the bed, one
shoe off, he stared with lifeless eyes
at the floor, at the hooked rug that
Elsie had made so long ago.

Yes, he’d promised to do what
the being had ordered. And the be-
ing had sunk the tiny, whirring
cone deep into his arm so that he
could only escape by cutting open
his own flesh and dying.

And then the hideous gruel had
vomited him onto the desert sands
and he had lain there, mute and
palsied while the being had raised
slowly from the earth. And he had
heard in his brain the last warn-
ing—

In two days . . .

And it had started, the endless,
enervating round of trapping in-
nocent people in order to preserve
himself from the fate he knew
awaited them.

And the horrible thing, the truly
horrible thing was that he knew he
would do it again. He knew he’d do
anything to keep the being away
from him. Even if it meant that the
woman must —

His mouth tightened. His eyes
shut and he sat trembling without
control on the bed.

What would he do when the

couple were gone? What would he
do if no one else came to the sta-
tion? What would he do if the po-
lice came checking on the disap-
pearances of eleven people?

His shoulders twisted and an an-
guished sobbing pulsed in his
throat.

Before he lay down he took a
long swallow from the dwindling
whiskey bottle. He lay in the dark-
ness, a nerve-scraped coil, waiting,
the small pool of heat in his stom-
ach unable to warm the coldness
and the emptiness of him.

In his arm the cone whirled.

LES JERKED out the last bar
J and stood there for a moment,
head slumped forward on his chest,
panting through clenched teeth, his
body heaving with exhausted
breath. Every muscle in his back
and shoulders and arms ached with
throbbing pain.

Then he sucked in a rasping
breath. “Let’s go,” he gasped.

His arms vibrated as he helped
Marian clamber through the win-
dow.

“Don’t make any noise.” He
could hardly speak he was so tired
from the combination of thirst, hun-
ger, heat exhaustion and seemingly
endless, muscle-cramped filing.

He couldn’t get his leg up, he had
to go through the rough-edged
opening head first, pushing and
squirming, feeling splinters jab into
his sweat-greased flesh. When he
thudded down, the pain of impact
ran jaggedly along his extended
arms and, for a second, the dark-
ness swam with needles of light.
Marian helped him up.

BEING

89

“Let’s go/’ he said again, breath-
lessly and they started to run across
the ground toward the front of the
house.

Abruptly, he grabbed her wrist
and jerked her to a halt.

“Get those sandals off,” he or-
dered hoarsely. She bent over quick-
ly and unbuckled them.

The house was dark as they hur-
ried around the back corner of it
and dashed along the side be-
neath the moon-reflecting windows.
Marian winced as her right foot
jarred down on a sharp pebble.

“Thank God,” Les gasped to
himself as they reached the front
of the house.

The car was still there. As they
ran toward it, he felt into his back
pocket and took out his wallet. His
shaking fingers reached into the
small change purse and felt the
coolness of the extra ignition key.
He was sure the other keys wouldn’t
be in the car.

They reached it.

“Quick” he gasped and they
pulled open the doors and slid in.
Les suddenly realized that he was
shivering in the chilly night air. He
took out the key and fumbled for
the ignition slot. They’d left the
doors open, planning to close them
when the motor started.

Les found the slot and slid in the
key, then drew in a tense, shudder-
ing breath. If the man had done
- anything to the motor, they were
lost.

“Here goes,” he murmured and
jabbed at the starter button.

The motor coughed and turned
over once with a groan. Les’s throat
clicked convulsively, he jerked back
his hand and threw an apprehen-

90

sive look at the dark house.

“Oh God, won’t it start?” Mari-
an whispered, feeling her legs and
arms break out in gooseflesh.

“I don’t know, I hope it’s just
cold,” he said hurriedly. He caught
his breath, then pushed in the but-
ton again, pumping at the choke.

The motor turned again lethargi-
cally. Oh God, he has done some-
thing to it! — the words exploded
in Les’s mind. He jammed in the
button feverishly, his body tense
with fear. Why didn’t we push it
to the main road! — the new
thought came, deepening the lines
on his face.

“Les!”

He felt her hand clutch at his
arm and, almost instinctively, his
gaze jerked over to the house.

A light had flared up at a sec-
ond story window.

“Oh Jesus, start!” he cried in a
broken frenzy and pushed at the
button with a rigid thumb.

The motor coughed into life and
a wave of relief covered him. Si-
multaneously, he and Marian
pulled at the doors and slammed
them shut while he gunned the en-
gine strongly to get it warm.

As he threw the gears into first,
the head and trunk of the man ap-
peared in the window. He shouted
something but neither ‘"of them
heard of it over the roar of the
motor.

The car jerked forward and
stalled.

Les hissed in impotent fury as he
jabbed in the button again. The
motor caught and he eased up the
clutch. The tires bumped over the
uneven ground. Upstairs, the man
was gone from the window and

RICHARD MATHESON

Marian, her eyes fastened to the
house, saw a downstairs light go on.

“Hurry!” she begged.

The car picked up speed and
Les, shoving the gears into second,
jerked the car into a tight semi-
circle. The tires skidded on the
hard earth and, as the car headed
for the lane, Les threw it into third
and jerked at the knob that sent the
two headlights splaying out bright-
ly into the darkness.

Behind them, something ex-
ploded and they both jerked their
shoulders forward convulsively as
something gouged across the roof
with a grating shriek. Les shoved
the accelerator to the floor and the
car leaped forward, plunging and
rocking into the rutted lane.

Another shotgun blast tore open
the night and half of the back win-
dow exploded in a shower of glass
splinters. Again, their shoulders
twitched violently and Les grunted
as a sliver gouged its razor edge
across the side of his neck.

His hands jerked on the wheel,
the car hit a small ditch and almost
veered into a bank on the left side
of the lane. His fingers tightened
convulsively and, with arms braced,
he pulled the car back into the cen-
ter of the lane, crying to Marian,

“Where is he?’5

Her white face twisted around.

“I can’t see him!”

His throat moved quickly as the
car bucked and lurched over the
holes, the headlights jerking wildly
with each motion.

Get to the next town, he thought
wildly, tell the sheriff, try and save
that other poor devil. His foot
pressed down on the pedal as the
lane smoothed out. Get to the next

town and —

She screamed it. “Look out!”

He couldn’t stop in time. The
hood of the Ford drove splintering
into the heavy gate across the lane'
and the car jolted to a neck- jerk-
ing halt. Marian went flailing for-
ward against the dashboard, the
side of her head snapping against
the windshield. The engine stalled
and both headlights smashed out in
an instant.

Les shoved away from the steer-
ing wheel, knocked breathless by
the impact.

“Honey, quick ” he gasped.

A choking sob shook in Marian’s
throat. “My head, my head” Les
sat in stunned muteness a moment,
staring at her as she twisted her
head around in an agony of pain,
one hand pressed rigidly to her
forehead.

Then he shoved open the door at
his side and grabbed for her free
hand. “Marian, we have to get out
of here!”

She kept crying helplessly as he
almost dragged her from the car
and threw his arm around her waist
to support her. Behind him, he
heard the sound of heavy boots
running down the lane and saw,
over his shoulder, a bright flash-
light eye bobbing as it bore down
on them.

Marian collapsed at the gate. Les
stood there holding her, trembling
impotently as the man came run-
ning up, a forty-five clutched in his
right hand, a flashlight in his left.
Les winced at the beam flaring into
his eyes.

“Back,” was all the man said,
panting heavily and Les saw the
barrel of the gun wave once toward

BEING

91

the house.

“But my wife is hurt!33 he said,
“She hit her head against the wind-
shield. You can’t just put her back
in a cage!33

“I said get back!30 The man’s
shout made Les start.

“But she can’t walk, she’s un-
conscious!”

He heard a rasping breath shud-
der through the man’s body and
saw that he was stripped to the
waist and shivering.

“Garry her then,” the man said.

“But—”

“Shall I blast ya where ya stand!”
the man yelled in a frenzied anger.

“No. No.” Les shook nervously as
he lifted up Marian’s slack body.
The man stepped aside and Les
started back up the lane, trying to
watch Marian’s face and his foot-
ing at the same time.

“Honey,” he whispered, “Mari-
an?”

Her head hung limply over his
left forearm, the short blond hair
ruffling against her temples and
brow as he walked. Tension kept
building up in him until he felt like
screaming.

“Why are you doing this?” he
suddenly blurted out over his
shoulder.

No answer, just the rhythmic
slogging of the man’s boots over the
pocked ground.

“How can you do this to any-
one?” Les asked brokenly, “Trap-
ping your own kind and giving
them to that — that God only knows
what it is!”

<lShut up!” But there was more
defeat than anger in the man’s
voice.

“Look,” Les said suddenly, im-

92

pulsively, “Let my wife go. Keep
me here if you have to but . . . but
let her go. Please!33

The man said nothing and Les
bit his lips in frustrated anguish. He
looked down at Marian with sick,
frightened eyes.

“Marian,” he said, “Marian.33
He shivered violently in the cold
night air.

The house loomed up bleakly out
of the flat darkness of the desert.

“For God’s sake, don’t put her
in a cage!” he cried out desperately.

“Get back33 The man’s voice was
flat, there was nothing in it, neither
promise nor emotion.

Les stiffened. If it had been just
him, he would have whirled and
leaped at the man, he knew it. He
wouldn’t, willingly, walk back past
the edge of the house again, back
toward the cages, toward that
thing.

But there was Marian.

He stepped over the thrown-
down shotgun on the ground and
heard, behind him, the grunt of the
man as he bent over and picked it
up. I have to get her out of here, he
thought, I have to!

It happened before he could do
anything. He heard the man step
up suddenly behind him and then
felt a pinprick on his right shoulder.
He caught his breath at the sudden
sting and turned as quickly as he
could, weighed down by Marian’s
dead limpness.

“What are you — ”

He couldn’t even finish the sen-
tence. It seemed suddenly as if hot,
numbing liquors were being hosed
through his veins. An immense
lassitude covered his limbs and he
hardly felt it when the man took

RICHARD MATHESON

Marian from his arms.

He stumbled forward a step, the
night alive with glittering pinpoints
of light. The earth ran like water
beneath his feet, his legs turned to
rubber.

“No” He said it in a lethargic
grumble.

Then he toppled. And didn’t
even feel the impact of the ground
against his falling body.

The belly of the globe was warm .
It undulated with a thick and
vaporous heat. In the humid dim-
ness, the being rested, its shapeless
body quivering with monotonous
pulsations of sleep. The being was
comfortable, it was content, coiled
grotesquely like some cosmic cat
before a hearth.

For two days.

PIERCING screams woke him.

He stirred fitfully and moved
his lips as though to speak. But his
lips were made of iron. They sagged
inertly and he couldn’t move them.
Only a great forcing of will would
raise his leaden eyelids.

The cage air fluttered and shim-
mered with strange convections.
His eyes blinked slowly; glazed, un-
comprehending eyes. His hands
flopped weakly at his sides like
dying fish.

It was the man in the other cage
screaming. The poor devil had
come out of his drugged state and
was hysterical because he knew.

Les’s sweat-grimed brow wrin-
kled slowly, evenly. He could think.
His body was like a massive stone,
unwieldy and helpless. But, behind
its flint, immobile surface, his brain

BEING

was just as sure.

His eyes fell shut. That made it
all the more horrible. To know
what was coming. To lie there help-
less and know what was going to
happen to him.

He thought he shuddered, but he
wasn’t sure. That thing, what was
it? There was nothing in knowl-;
edge to construct from, no founda-
tion of rational acceptance to build
upon. What he’d seen that night
was something beyond all —

What day was it? Where was —

Marian !

It was like rolling a boulder to
turn his head. Clicking filled his
throat, saliva dribbled unnoticed
from the corners of his mouth.
Again, he forced his eyes open with
a great straining of will.

Panic drove knife blades into his
brain even though his face changed
not at all.

Marian wasn’t there.

She lay, limply drugged, on the
bed. He’d laid another cool, wet
cloth across her brow, across the
welt on her right temple.

Now he stood silently, looking
down at her. He’d just gotten back
from the cages where he’d injected
the screaming man again to quiet
him. He wondered what was in the
drug that being had given him, he
wondered what it did to the man.
He hoped it made him completely
insensible.

It was the man’s last day.

No, it’s dumb imagination, he
told himself suddenly. She didn’t
look like Elsie, she didn’t look at
all like Elsie.

It was his mind. He wanted her
to look like Elsie, that was what it

93

was. His throat twitched as he swal-
lowed. Stupid. The word slapped
dully at his brain. She didn’t look
like Elsie.

For a moment, he let his gaze
move once more over the woman’s
body, at the smooth rise of her bust,
the willowy hips, the long, well-
formed legs. Marian. That was
what the man had called her.
Marian.

It was a nice name.

With an angry twist of his shoul-
ders, he turned away from the bed
and strode quickly from the room.
What was the matter with him any-
way? What did he think he was go-
ing to do — let her go? There had
been no sense in taking her into the
house the night before last, in put-
ting her in the spare bedroom. No
sense in it at all. He couldn’t let
himself feel sympathy for her, for
anyone. If he did, he was lost. That
was obvious.

As he moved down the steps, he
tried to remind himself once more
of the horror of being absorbed into
that gelatinous mass. He tried to
remember the brain-searing terror
of it. But, somehow, the memory
kept disappearing like wind-blown
cloud and he kept thinking instead
of the woman. Marian. She did
look like Elsie ; the same color hair,
the same mouth.

No!

He’d leave her in the bedroom
until the drug wore off. Then he’d
put her back in the cage again. It’s
me or them ! — he argued furiously
with himself. I ain’t going to die
like that! Not for anyone.

He kept arguing with himself all
the way down to the station.

I must be crazy, he thought, tak-

94

ing her in the house like that, feel-
ing sorry for her. I can’t afford it, I
can’t. She’s just two days to me,
that’s all, just a two-day reprieve
from —

The station was empty, silent.
Merv braked the truck and got out.

His boots crunched over the hot
earth as he paced restlessly around
the pumps. I can’t let her go! he
lashed out at himself, his face taut
with fury. He shuddered then at
the realization that he had been en-
tertaining the thought for two days
now.

“Why wasn’t she a man?” he
muttered to himself, fists tight and
blood-drained at his sides. He
raised his left arm and looked at
the reddish lump. Why couldn’t he
tear it out of his flesh? Why?

The car came then. A salesman’s
car, dusty and hot.

As Merv pumped gas in, as he
checked the oil and water, he kept
glancing from under his hat brim
at the hot-faced little man in the
linen suit and panama hat. Replace
her. Merv wouldn’t let the thought
out yet he knew it was there. He
found himself glancing down at the
license plate.

Arizona.

His face tightened. No. No, he’d
always gotten out-of-state cars, it
was safer that way. I’ll have to let
him go, he thought miserably, I’ll
have to. I can’t afford to. . .

But when the little man was
reaching into his wallet, Merv felt
his hand slide back to his back over-
all pocket, he felt his fingers tighten
over the warm butt of the forty-
five.

The little man stared, slack-
jawed, at the big gun.

RICHARD MATHESON

“What is this?” he asked weakly.
Merv didn’t tell him.

Night brushed its black iced fin-
gers across the moving bubble.
Earth flowed beneath its liquid
coming.

Why was the air so f aint with
nourishment , why did the atmos-
phere press so feebly in? This land,
it was a weak, a dying land, its life-
administering gasses almost spent.

Amidst slithering, amidst scour-
ing approach, the being thought of
escape.

How long now had it been here
in this barren place? There was no
way of telling for the planet’s sun
appeared and disappeared with in-
sane rapidity, darkness and light
flickering in alternation like the
wink of an eye .

And, on the ship, the instruments
of chronometry were shattered,
they were irreparable. There was
no context any more, no customed
metric to adjust by. The being was
lost upon this tenuous void of liv-
ing rock, unable to do more than
forage for its sustenance.

Off in the black distance, the
dwelling of the planet’s animal ap-
peared, grotesquely angular and
peaked. It was a stupid animal, this
brainless beast incapable of ration-
ality, able only to emit wild
squawking cries and flap its tendrils
like the night plants of his own
world. And its body — it was too
hard with calciumed rigidity, pro-
viding scant nutriment, making it
necessary for the being to eat twice
as often so violent an energy did di-
gestion take.

Closer. The clicking grew louder .

The animal was there, as usual ,

lying still upon the ground, its ten-
drils curled and limp. The being
shot out threads of thought and
sapped the sluggish juices of
thought from the animal. It was a
, barbaric place if this was its intelli-
gence. The being heaved closer,
swelling and sucking along the
wind-swept earth.

The animal stirred and deep re-
vulsion quivered in the being’s
mind. If it were not starving and
helpless it could never force itself
to absorb this twitching, stiff-ribbed
beast.

Bubble touched tendril. The be-
ing flowed across the animal form
and trembled to a stop. Visual cells
revealed the animal looking up, dis-
tended eyed. Audial cells trans-
ferred the wild and strangling noise
the dying animal made. Tactile
cells absorbed the flimsy agitations
of its body.

And, in its deepest ce?iter, the be-
ing sensed the tireless clicking that
emanated from the dark lair where,
hidden and shaking, the first ani-
mal was — the animal in whose
flaccid tendril was imbedded the
location cone.

The being ate. And, eating, won-
dered if there would ever be enough
food to keep it alive —

— for the thousand earth years
of its life.

He lay slumped across the cage
floor, his heartbeat jolting as the
man looked in at him.

He’d been testing the walls when
he heard the slap of the screen
door and the sound of the man’s
boots descending the porch steps.
He’d lunged down and rolled over
quickly onto his back, trying des-

95

BEING

perately to remember what position
he’d been in while he was still
drugged, arranging his hands limp-
ly at his sides, drawing up his right
leg a little, closing his eyes. The
man mustn’t know that he was con-
scious. The man had to open the
door without caution.

Les forced himself to breathe
slowly and evenly even though it
made his stomach hurt. The man
made no sound as he gazed in.
When he opens the lock, Les kept
telling himself — as soon as I hear
the door pulled open, I’ll jump.

His throat moved once as a nerv-
ous shudder rippled through him.
Gould the man tell he was faking?
His muscles tensed, waiting for the
sound of the door opening. He had
to get away now.

There would be no other time.
It was coming tonight.

Then the sound of the man’s
boots started away. Abruptly, Les
opened his eyes, a look of shocked
disbelief contorting his features.
The man wasn’t going to open the
cage!

For a long time he lay there,
shivering, staring up mutely at the
barred window where the man had
stood. He felt like crying aloud and
beating his fists against the door
until they were bruised and bleed-
ing.

“No . . . no” His voice was a life-
less mumble.

Finally, he pushed up and got on
his knees. Cautiously, he looked
over the rim of the window. The
man was gone.

He crouched back down and
went through his pockets again.

His wallet — nothing there to
help him. His handkerchief, the

96

stub of pencil, forty-seven cents, his
comb.

Nothing else.

He held the articles in his palms
and stared down at them for long
moments as if, somehow, they held
the answer to his terrible need.
There had to be an answer, it was
inconceivable that he should ac-
tually end up out there on the
ground like that other man, put
there for that thing to —

“No!”

With a spasmodic twitch of his
hands, he flung the articles onto
the dirt floor of the cage, his lips
drawn back in a dull cry of fright-
ened outrage. It can’t be real, it has
to be a dream!

He fell to his knees desperately
and once more began running shak-
ing fingers over the sides of the
cage, looking for a crack, a weak
board, anything.

And, while he searched in vain,
he tried not to think about the
night coming and what the night
was going to bring.

But that was all he could think
about.

SHE SAT UP, gasping, as the
man’s calloused fingers stroked
at her hair. Her widened eyes
stared at him in horror as he jerked
back his hand.

“Elsie,” he muttered.

The whiskey-heavy cloud of his
breath poured across her face and
she drew back, grimacing, her
hands clutching tensely at the bed-
spread.

“Elsie.” He said it again, thick
voiced, his glazed eyes looking at
her drunkenly.

RICHARD MATHESON

The bedspread rustled beneath
her as she pushed back further un-
til her back bumped against the
wooden headboard.

“Elsie, I didn’t mean to,” the
man said, dark blades of hair hang-
ing down over his temples, breath
falling hotly from his open mouth,
“Elsie, don’t . . . don’t be scared of
me.

“W-where’s my husband?”

“Elsie, you look like Elsie,” the
man slurred the words, his blood-
streaked eyes pleading, “You look
like Elsie, oh . . . God , you look
like Elsie.”

“Where’s my husband!”

His hand clamped over her wrist
and she felt herself jerked like a
flimsy doll against the man’s chest.
His stale breath surrounded her.

“No” she gasped, her hands
pushing at his shoulders.

“I love ya, Elsie, I love ya!”

“Les!” Her scream rang out in
the small room.

Her head snapped to the side as
the man’s big palm drove across
her cheek.

“He’s dead!” the man shouted
hoarsely, “It ate him, it ate him!
You hear!”

She fell back against the head-
board, her eyes stark with horror.
“No” She didn’t even know she’d
spoken.

The man struggled up to his feet
and stood there weaving, looking
down at her blank face.

“You think I wanted to?” he
asked brokenly, a tear dribbling
down his beard-darkened cheek,
“You think I liked to do it?” A sob
shuddered in his chest. “I didn’t
like to do it. But you don’t know,
y-you don’t know . I was in it, I

BEING

was in it! Oh God . . . you don’t
know what it was like. You don’t
know!”

He sank down heavily on the
bed, his head slumped forward, his
chest racked with helpless sobs.

“I didn’t want to. God, do you
think I w -wanted to?”

Her left fist was pressed rigidly
against her lips. She couldn’t seem
to breathe. No. Her mind struggled
to disbelieve. No, it’s not true, it
isn’t true.

Suddenly, she threw her legs
over the side of the bed and stood.
Outside, the sun was going down.
It doesn’t come till dark, her mind
argued desperately, not until dark.
But how long had she been un-
conscious?

The man looked up with red-
rimmed eyes. “What are ya doing?”

She started running for the door.

As she jerked open the door, the
man collided with her and the two
of them went crashing against the
wall. Breath was driven from her

97

body and the ache in her head
flared up again. The man clutched
at her; she felt his hands running
wildly over her chest and shoulders.

“Elsie, Elsie. . .” the man gasped,
trying to kiss her again.

That was when she saw the
heavy pitcher on the table beside
them. She hardly felt his tightening
fingers, his hard, brutal mouth
crushed against hers. Her stretch-
ing fingers closed over the pitcher
handle, she lifted. . .

Great chunks of the white pot-
tery showered on the floor as the
man’s cry of pain filled the room.

Then Marian was leaning against
the wall, gasping for breath and
looking down at his crumpled body,
at his thick fingers still twitching
on the rug.

Suddenly her eyes fled to the
window. Almost sunset.

Abruptly, she ran back to the
man and bent over his motionless
body. Her shaking fingers felt
through his overall pockets until
they found the ring of keys.

As she fled from the room, she
heard the man groan and saw, over
her shoulder, the fleeting sight of
him turning slowly onto his back.

She ran down the hall and jerked
open the front door. Dying sunlight
flooded the sky with its blood.

With a choking gasp, she jumped
down the porch steps and ran in
desperate, erratic strides around
the house, not even feeling the
pebbles her feet ran over. She kept
looking at the silent row of cages
she was running toward. It’s not
true, it’s not true — the words kept
running through her brain — he
lied to me. A sob pulled back her
lips. He lied!

98

Darkness was falling like* a rapid
curtain as she dashed up to the first
cage on trembling legs.

Empty.

Another sob pulsed in her throat.
She ran to the next cage. He was
lying!

Empty.

“No”

“ Les !”

“Marian!” He leaped across the
cage floor, a sudden wild hope
flashing across his face.

“Oh, darling” Her voice was a
shaking, strengthless murmur, “He
told me — ”

“Marian, open the cage. Hurry!
It’s coming ”

Dread fell over her again, a
wave of numbing cold. Her head
jerked to the side instinctively, her
shocked gaze fled out across the
darkening desert.

“Marian!”

Her hands shook uncontrollably
as she tried one of the keys in the
lock. It didn’t fit. She bit her lip
until pain flared up. She tried an-
other key. It didn’t fit.

“Hurry”

“Oh God.” She whimpered as
her palsied hands inserted another
key. That didn’t fit.

“I can’t find the — ”

Suddenly, her voice choked off,
her breath congealed. In a second,
she felt her limbs petrify.

In the silence, faintly, a sound of
something huge grating, and hiss-
ing over the earth.

“Oh, no” She looked aside hur-
riedly, then back at Les again.

“It’s all right, baby,” he said.
“All right, don’t get excited.
There’s plenty of time.” He drew
in a heavy breath. “Try the next

RICHARD MATHESON

key. That’s right. No, no, the other
one. It’s all right now. There. No,
that doesn’t work. Try the next
one.” His stomach kept contract-
ing into a tighter, harder knot.

The skin of Marian’s lower lip
broke beneath her teeth. She
winced and dropped the key ring.
With a gagging whimper, she bent
over and snatched it up. Across the
desert, the wheezing, squashing
sound grew louder.

“Oh, Les, I can’t, I can’t!”

“All right, baby,” he heard him-
self say suddenly, “Never mind.
Run for the highway.”

She looked up at him, suddenly
expressionless. “What?”

“Honey, don’t stand there for
God’s sake!” he cried, “Run!”

She caught the breath that shook
in her and dug her teeth again
into the jagged break on her lip.
Her hands stopped shaking and,
almost numbed, she tried the next
key, the next, while Les stood
watching her with terrified eyes,
looking over her shoulder toward
the desert.

“Honey, don’t—”

The lock sprang open. With a
breathless grunt, Les shoved open
the door and grabbed Marian’s
hand as the lathing sibilance shook
in the twilight air.

“Run!” he gasped, “Don’t look
back!”

They ran on wildly pumping legs
away from the cages, away from the
six-foot high mass of quivering life
that flopped into the clearing like
gelatine dumped from a gargan-
tuan bowl. They tried not to lis-
ten, they kept their eyes straight
ahead, they ran without breaking
their long, panic-driven strides.

The car was back in front of the
house again, it’s front bashed in.
They jerked open the doors and
slid in frantically. His shaking hand
felt the key still in the ignition. He
turned it and jabbed in the starter
button.

“Les, it’s coming this way!”

The gears ground together with
a loud rasp and the car jerked for-
ward. He didn’t look behind, he
just changed gears and kept push-
ing down on the accelerator until
the car lurched into the lane again.

IES TURNED the car right
■^and headed for the town he
remembered passing through — it
seemed like years before. He
pushed the gas pedal to the floor
and the car picked up speed. He
couldn’t see the road clearly with-
out the headlights but he couldn’t
keep his foot up, it seemed to jam
itself down on the accelerator. The
car roared down the darkening
road and Les drew in his first easy
breath in four days as. . .

the being foamed and rocked
across the ground , fury boiling in
its tissues . The animal had failed ,
there was no food waiting , the food
had gone. The being slithered in
angry circles, searching, its visual
cells picking at the ground, its
sheathed and luminous formless-
ness scouring away the flaky dirt.
Nothing. The being gurgled like a
viscid tide for the house, for the
clicking sound in ,

Merv Ketter’s arm jerked spas-
modically and he sat up, eyes wide
and staring. Pain drove jagged lines

BEING

99

of consciousness into his brain —
pain in his head, pain in his arm.
The cone was like a burrowing
spider there, clawing with razor
legs, trying to cut its way out of his
flesh. Merv struggled up to his
knees, teeth gritted together, eyes
clouding with the pain.

He had barely gained his feet
when the crashing, splintering
sound shook the house. He twitched
violently, his lower jaw dropping.
The digging, gouging fire in his arm
increased and, suddenly he knew.
With a whining gasp, he leaped
into the hall and looked down the
dark stairway pit.

the being undulated up the stairs ,
its seventy ingot eyes glowering , its
shimmering deformity lurching up
toward the animal. Maddened fury
hissed and bubbled through its
amorphous shape, it flopped and
flung itself up the angular steps .
The animal turned and fled toward

the back steps! — it was his only
chance. He couldn’t breathe, air
seemed liquid in his lungs. His boot
heels hammered down the hall and
through the darkness of his bed-
room. Behind, he heard the railings
buckle and snap as the being
reached the second floor, bent it-
self around into a U-shaped blad-
der, then threw its sodden form for-
ward again.

Merv flung himself down the
steep stairway, his palsied hand
gripping at the railing, his heart-
beat pounding at his chest like mal-
let blows. He cried out hoarsely as
the pain in his arm flared again,
almost making him lose conscious-
ness.

100

As he reached the bottom -step,
he heard the doorway of his bed-
room shattered violently and heard
the gushing fury of the being as it

heaved and bucked into the
backstair doorway and smashed it
out to its own size. Below, it heard
the pounding of the fleeing animal.
Then adhesiveness lost hold and
the being went grinding and roll-
ing down the stairway, its seven
hundred feelers pricking the casing
and scraping at the splintering
wood.

It hit the bottom step, crushed
its huge misshapen bulk through
the doorway and boiled across the
kitchen floor.

In the living room Merv dashed
for the mantel. Reaching up, he
jerked down the Mauser rifle and
whirled as the distended being cas-
caded its luminescent body through
the doorway.

The room echoed and rang with
sharp explosions as Merv emptied
the rifle into the onrushing hulk.
The bullets sprayed off its casing
impotently and Merv jumped back
with a scream of terror, the gun
flung from his hands. His outflung
arm knocked off the picture of his
wife and he heard it shatter on the
floor and, in his twisted mind, had
the fleeting vision of it lying on the
floor, Elsie’s face smiling behind
jagged glass.

Then his hand closed over some-
thing hard. And, suddenly, he knew
exactly what to do.

As the glittering mass reared up
and threw its liquidity toward him,
Merv jumped to the side. The
mantel splintered, the wall cracked

RICHARD MATHESON

open.

Then, as the being pulled itself
up again and heaved over him,
Merv jerked out the pin of the
grenade and held it tightly to his
chest.

Stupid beast! I’ll kill you now
for —

PAIN ! !

Tissues exploded , the casing split ,
the being ran across the floor like
slag , a molten torrent of proto-
plasms.

Then silence in the room . The
being's minds snuffed out one by
one as tenuous atmosphere starved
each tissue of its life. The remains
trembled slightly, agony flooded

through the being's cells and glu-
tinous joints . Thoughts trickled.

Vital fluids trickling . Lamp
beams giving warmth and life to
pulsing matter. Organisms joining,
cells dividing, the undulant con-
tents of the food vat swelling , swell-
ing, overpowering. Where are they!
Where are the masters who gave me
life that I might feed them and
never lose my bulk or energy ?

And then the being, which was
born of tumorous hydroponics, died,
having forgotten that it, itself, had
eaten the masters as they slept, in-
gesting, with their bodies, all the
knowledge of their minds.

• • • THE END

WORTH CITING

A NEW mark in the long history of communications is the first trans-
ocean telephone cable. Stretched 2,300 miles across the ocean floor from
Nova Scotia to Newfoundland to Scotland it will be another step in bring-
ing the New World and the Old together. In terms of time New York and
London will be a mere 4/100ths of a second apart.

Plans call for two cables laid about ten miles apart and able to carry as
many as 36 separate conversations simultaneously. Yet the cable itself will
be no thicker than an ordinary lead pencil.

Three miles down on the ocean floor the cable will be impervious to
the atmospheric conditions that now wreak havoc with radiotelephonic
communication. Jamming will be impossible, and the danger of having
enemy agents hear secret messages will also be obviated. Since the exact
location of the cable will be a security secret, tapping the line or cutting it
will scarcely be possible without detection.

Our citation of the month goes to the combined international effort
that has made this 100 year old dream possible; and to the American
Telephone and Telegraph Co., the British Post Office, and the Canadian
Overseas Telecommunication Corporation who have combined their skill
and resources for this project.

BEING

101

The atomic and hydrogen bombs are getting most of the head-
lines but the really big news — the good news of our atomic age
for the average citizen — is being quietly made in the labora-
tories of industry and health throughout America . . .

TODAY AND ATOMICS

An IF Fact Article

By M. T. Kay

WO CONTRACTORS were in
something of a dilemma. A
spanking new house they had put
up had sprung a leak — not a simple
roof leak but a hidden one in the
heating system buried in the con-
crete floor. Somewhere in the maze
of pipes, buried in tons of rock-hard
concrete, the boiler was losing a gal-
lon of hot water every ten minutes.

“I can’t understand it,” one of
the contractors said. “We tested
that whole system before the ce-
ment was poured.”

The other viewed the situation
hopelessly. “Well, that’s where it is.
So we just start riping up the tile.
Maybe we can find a wet spot.”
“And if you don’t?”

“Then we’ll just have to rip the

whole floor out!”

Ripping up the thick concrete
floor would have added thousands
to the cost, which would have been

out of their own pockets, and the
owner would have been delayed an-
other month or so before he could
move in. But, fortunately. That
wasn’t the way the contractors had
to solve their problem. Before the
wrecking crew arrived, their prob-
lem became known to a firm of
nuclear engineers who recom-
mended the use of radioactive iso-
topes in pin-pointing the leak.

The nuclear engineers put a small
amount of the radioactive substance
in the water of the heating system.
Then it was circulated through the
piping in the cement. A geiger
counter would have gone crazy in
that house. After a few minutes, the
system was drained and the piping
flushed. Now a geiger counter
found only one hot spot, the con-
crete at the point where the water
was seeping into the cement.

Only a couple feet of concrete

117

had to be chipped out. Without the
use of this isotope hundreds of feet
of flooring might have been ruined
before the leak had been found.
The owners moved in on time and
the contractors saved a lot of
money.

The atomic age is here. Big job
or little job, in every phase of life,
it’s helping everybody toward an
easier existence. Even the “con”
man has entered the field. Reports
are already coming in of sharp
operators taking advantage of the
public’s gullibility to pass off photo-
graphic film as a detector for Ura-
nium prospecting.

Our new atomic age started when
a small group of men tried to iden-
tify the atoms, the building blocks
of nature. They found oxygen, ni-
trogen, silicon, chlorine and the
other elements. Then they started
putting them back together to give
us textiles, cleaning compounds and
new foods. From the ninety- three
basic elements they have built over
a half a million different com-
pounds.

Science was coming to a stand-
still when Becquerel discovered
radioactivity and called the rays
that were coming out of the atoms
“Becquerel Rays”. Later, when
Rutherford found that there were
three kinds of rays in the “Becque-
rel Rays”, his assistant suggested
calling them the “A, B, and G
Rays”.

“What?” Rutherford snorted.
“Are you illiterate? We’ll call the
‘Alpha, Beta, and Gamma Rays’ ”.
And so the Greek curtain was
pulled down over radioactivity.

You understand why, of course.
Anything new has to be made mys-

terious. If it isn’t, people won’t ap-
preciate your discovery.

There was power in those radio-
active materials. Those early experi-
menters could feel it. Radioactive
materials were warm to the touch.
Immediately, they envisioned it as
a fuel and tried to speed up the re-
action. They heated it, cooled it,
chopped it up, tried catalysts, but
none of their chemical tricks
worked. Nature went along in her
own unhurried way; man just
couldn’t push her.

Then they began to realize that
there were different kinds of atoms
in the elements. There was a radio-
active carbon atom and a stable
type. The atoms that were radio-
active were changing into atoms of
a different element. Man tried his
hand at duplicating nature’s feat
and built expensive machines to
transmute the elements. Before
1940, though, you could put all the
atoms man had changed into a
thimble, and all the entries in the
economic ledger were red.

The discovery of the chain reac-
tion brought the reactor into being.
High density neutron beams in the
reactor were more powerful than
anything man or nature could make
— and the race to make new atoms
was on.

Nowadays you can get just about
any of the known atoms you want.
In most cases, they are not exor-
bitantly expensive. Standard sam-
ples can be had for experimental
purposes for a reasonable price.

But there are still more kinds of
atoms that are needed. We need a
good radioactive oxygen atom. It
would help biologists trace the path
of water and carbon dioxide

118

M. T. KAY

through the plants. The plants can
make sugar out of water, sunlight,
and carbon dioxide. Man would
like to know how they do it. If we
knew we would not be dependant
on nature for all our food. From
the sugar you can make alcohol too,
and then you wouldn’t have to
worry about the oil fields running
dry either.

Making sugar isn’t the only
dream the scientists have. . They
want to know how our bodies put
sulphur, phosphor, calcium, and
iron together to make living cells.
This could mean new legs for the
cripple, new eyes for the blind, new
ears for the deaf, new teeth for the
toothless. Most of the lower forms
of life can rebuild lost and damaged
parts of their bodies. Somehow, for
higher forms of life, this was lost
in evolution. If enough is known
about how our bodies live, some
genius may come along to find out
how to restore this miracle to us.

IMPOSSIBLE? No. If you de-
mand it from science, you will
get it. Our grandfathers demanded
faster ships and we got our ocean
liners. They demanded greater
longevity and we got that too. In
Caesar’s day, a man of thirty was
old. Now a man of thirty is just
getting started. You demand it —
science will give it to you.

It takes a genius to make sugar
or to discover a way to help our
bodies grow new limbs, but the
ordinary man can use these tools
too.

For many years men have , been
stationed in the mountains to meas-
ure the depths of the snowbanks.

TODAY AND ATOMICS

This information is needed. If the
snowfall is light, the dams have to
hold all the water that comes down
in the spring for next summer’s
crops. If the snowfall is heavy, the
water level in the dams most be
lowered to provide the capacity
necessary for controlling the spring
floods.

These men were lost to us for
the most part of a year. They could
have been employed in industry,
building cars, houses, appliances,
etc. Now the atomic age has re-
leased these men. Instead of man
power, a new machine measures the
snowfall in the mountains. It has
a small piece of radioactive cobalt
buried in the ground and a counter
hangs in the air over it. The radia-
tion detected by the counter is
proportional to the amount of ice
and snow between it and the cobalt.
The reading of the counter is re-
layed by radio to civilization.

Each new machine of the atomic
age can be evaluated by estimating
the number of man-hours saved or
by the reduction in price of a
product. If it does one of these two
things, our standard of living goes
up.

A new drug is being prepared for
the market. How good is it? How
fast does your body absorb it? How
much is used? How much lost?

Radioactive tracers give the
manufacturer the answer. The orig-
inal drug may have been a calcate
in the laboratory, but the atomic
age tells the maker to use the sul-
phite form. The result is a better
product for you.

A large chemical plant may be
making dyes, and successfully too.
Their product is selling. The plant

119

is operating five days a week. But
are they as economical as they really
can be? Are they working depleted
chemicals too long? Should the re-
action be kept at 150°F or at
162°F? Radioactive tracers can

five the management the answer.

‘art of the savings in cost can
go into higher wages for the work-
ers. This is the kind of wage in-
crease that does not lead to infla-
tion.

These things, more than the atom
bomb, will affect your life in the
years to come. They have already
made their influence felt. It may
be a while before we get back the
billions of dollars that have been
poured into the program, but the
dividends are trickling in.

Don’t say, “I’m a salesman, this
isn’t going to affect me.” Four years

ago that man in the mountains who
measured snowdrifts probably felt
that he was the last person the
atomic age would reach. All of us
are being nudged and pushed by
the new era. Sometimes you can
trip over a pot of gold, as was the
case in electroplating companies
who found that the water in their
vats became rich in heavy hydro-
gen, and heavy hydrogen brings a
good price these days.

You might lose your job in the
new times at hand. Impersonal peo-
ple call this “economic adjustment”.
In this case you’ve just stubbed
your toe. But whether you’re pick-
ing up the gold or nursing a sore
toe, you can look to a different and
better life in the atomic future.

LOOKING AHEAD ...

1

; IN THE SEPTEMBER ISSUE you’re going to be treated to an- :
other of Winston Marks’ entertaining yarns entitled Test Colony,

;■ a new novelette about a native of space named “Joe” who be- ;
came the “father of his country” . . . And, if you are ever worried
over your efficiency, read James McKimmey’s Confidence Game
and rest easy! You won’t find a better tale to illustrate that old
adage about “enough being enough” . . . E. G. Von Wald, who |
has a rare touch for satire, presents another chuckle-provoking
short story about a day when people who cooperate ( even biologi-
cally!) are unlawful. It’s called World Without War . . . Plus '
| Robert Sheckley’s The Battle, Dave Dryfoos’ Waste Not, Want, \
' Fox B. Holden’s Gift for Terra, R. E. Banks’ The Work-out \
Planet, and other stories and features that, as usual, provide the |
|| best in science fiction entertainment. Ask your newsdealer to save
you a copy of IF every month!

120

M. T. KAY

SAMPLING ORE — These two explorers are extracting ore samples from
rock using an intense heat, the flame being similar to that of an acetylene
torch. Many of the Moon's minerals are expected to be akin to those of
Earth, but scientists anticipate some of which we have never heard. All
samples dug up, or burned out, will be taken to the laboratory in the
reconnaissance ship to be analysed and studied before any attempt is made
to mine them on a large scale.

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